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DEBT

THE FIRST
5 ,000 YEARS

DAVID GRAEBER

«A BRILLIANT, DEEPLY ORIGINAL
POLITICAL THINKER."
REBECCA SOLNIT, AUTHOR
R PRRRDISE BUILT IN HELL

THANK YOU ! COME AGAIN !

MELVILLE HOUSE
PUBLISHING

DEBT

THE FIRST
5,000 YEARS

DAVID GRAEBER

A MELVILLEHOUSE

BROOKLYN, NEW YORK

First Melville House Printing: May 2011

Melville House Publishing
145 Plymouth Street
Brooklyn, New York 11201
mhpbooks.com

ISBN: 978-1-933633-86-2

Printed in the United States of America

123456789 10

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Graeber, David.

Debt : the first 5,000 years / David Graeber.
p. cm.

Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-1-933633-86-2 (alk. paper)

1. Debt-History. 2. Money-History. 3. Financial crises-History.
I. Title.

HG3701.G73 2010
332— dc22

2010044508

CONTENTS

1 On The Experience of

Moral Confusion 1

2 The Myth of Barter 21

3 Primordial Debts 43

4 Cruelty and Redemption 73

5 A Brief Treatise on the Moral

Grounds of Economic Relations 89

6 Games with Sex and Death 127

7 Honor and Degradation, or,
On the Foundations of

Contemporary Civilization 165

8 Credit Versus Bullion,

And the Cycles of History 211

9 The Axial Age (800 BC-600 AD) 223

10 The Middle Ages (600 AD-1450 AD) 251

n Age of the Great Capitalist

Empires (1450-1971) 307

12 (1971-The Beginning of Something

Yet to Be Determined) 361

Notes 393

Bibliography 455

Index 493

Chapter One
ON THE EXPERIENCE OF MORAL CONFUSION

debt

• noun i a sum of money owed. 2 the
■state of owing money. 3 a feeling of
gratitude for a favour or service.

— Oxford English Dictionary

If you owe the bank a hundred thou-
sand dollars, the bank owns you. If
you owe the bank a hundred million
dollars, you own the bank.

— American Proverb

TWO YEARS AGO, by a series of strange coincidences, I found myself
attending a garden party at Westminster Abbey. I was a bit uncom-
fortable. It's not that other guests weren't pleasant and amicable, and
Father Graeme, who had organized the party, was nothing if not a gra-
cious and charming host. But I felt more than a little out of place. At
one point, Father Graeme intervened, saying that there was someone
by a nearby fountain whom I would certainly want to meet. She turned
out to be a trim, well-appointed young woman who, he explained, was
an attorney — "but more of the activist kind. She works for a founda-
tion that provides legal support for anti-poverty groups in London.
You'll probably have a lot to talk about."

We chatted. She told me about her job. I told her I had been
involved for many years with the global justice movement — "anti-
globalization movement," as it was usually called in the media. She
was curious: she'd of course read a lot about Seattle, Genoa, the tear
gas and street battles, but . . . well, had we really accomplished any-
thing by all of that?

"Actually," I said, "I think it's kind of amazing how much we did
manage to accomplish in those first couple of years."

DEBT

"For example?"

"Well, for example, we managed to almost completely destroy
the IMF."

As it happened, she didn't actually know what the IMF was, so
I offered that the International Monetary Fund basically acted as the
world's debt enforcers — "You might say, the high-finance equivalent
of the guys who come to break your legs." I launched into historical
background, explaining how, during the '70s oil crisis, OPEC coun-
tries ended up pouring so much of their newfound riches into Western
banks that the banks couldn't figure out where to invest the money;
how Citibank and Chase therefore began sending agents around the
world trying to convince Third World dictators and politicians to take
out loans (at the time, this was called "go-go banking"); how they
started out at extremely low rates of interest that almost immediately
skyrocketed to 20 percent or so due to tight U.S. money policies in the
early '80s; how, during the '80s and '90s, this led to the Third World
debt crisis; how the IMF then stepped in to insist that, in order to
obtain refinancing, poor countries would be obliged to abandon price
supports on basic foodstuffs, or even policies of keeping strategic food
reserves, and abandon free health care and free education; how all of
this had led to the collapse of all the most basic supports for some of
the poorest and most vulnerable people on earth. I spoke of poverty,
of the looting of public resources, the collapse of societies, endemic
violence, malnutrition, hopelessness, and broken lives.

"But what was your position?" the lawyer asked.

"About the IMF? We wanted to abolish it."

"No, I mean, about the Third World debt."

"Oh, we wanted to abolish that too. The immediate demand was
to stop the IMF from imposing structural adjustment policies, which
were doing all the direct damage, but we managed to accomplish that
surprisingly quickly. The more long-term aim was debt amnesty. Some-
thing along the lines of the biblical Jubilee. As far as we were con-
cerned," I told her, "thirty years of money flowing from the poorest
countries to the richest was quite enough."

"But," she objected, as if this were self-evident, "they'd borrowed
the money! Surely one has to pay one's debts."

It was at this point that I realized this was going to be a very dif-
ferent sort of conversation than I had originally anticipated.

Where to start? I could have begun by explaining how these loans
had originally been taken out by unelected dictators who placed most
of it directly in their Swiss bank accounts, and ask her to contemplate
the justice of insisting that the lenders be repaid, not by the dictator,

ON THE EXPERIENCE OF MORAL CONFUSION

or even by his cronies, but by literally taking food from the mouths of
hungry children. Or to think about how many of these poor countries
had actually already paid back what they'd borrowed three or four
times now, but that through the miracle of compound interest, it still
hadn't made a significant dent in the principal. I could also observe
that there was a difference between refinancing loans, and demanding
that in order to obtain refinancing, countries have to follow some or-
thodox free-market economic policy designed in Washington or Zurich
that their citizens had never agreed to and never would, and that it was
a bit dishonest to insist that countries adopt democratic constitutions
and then also insist that, whoever gets elected, they have no control
over their country's policies anyway. Or that the economic policies
imposed by the IMF didn't even work. But there was a more basic
problem: the very assumption that debts have to be repaid.

Actually, the remarkable thing about the statement "one has to
pay one's debts" is that even according to standard economic theory,
it isn't true. A lender is supposed to accept a certain degree of risk. If
all loans, no matter how idiotic, were still retrievable — if there were no
bankruptcy laws, for instance — the results would be disastrous. What
reason would lenders have not to make a stupid loan?

"Well, I know that sounds like common sense," I said, "but the
funny thing is, economically, that's not how loans are actually sup-
posed to work. Financial institutions are supposed to be ways of direct-
ing resources toward profitable investments. If a bank were guaranteed
to get its money back, plus interest, no matter what it did, the whole
system wouldn't work. Say I were to walk into the nearest branch of
the Royal Bank of Scotland and say 'You know, I just got a really great
tip on the horses. Think you could lend me a couple million quid?'
Obviously they'd just laugh at me. But that's just because they know if
my horse didn't come in, there'd be no way for them to get the money
back. But, imagine there was some law that said they were guaranteed
to get their money back no matter what happens, even if that meant, I
don't know, selling my daughter into slavery or harvesting my organs
or something. Well, in that case, why not? Why bother waiting for
someone to walk in who has a viable plan to set up a laundromat or
some such? Basically, that's the situation the IMF created on a global
level — which is how you could have all those banks willing to fork
over billions of dollars to a bunch of obvious crooks in the first place."

I didn't get quite that far, because at about that point a drunken
financier appeared, having noticed that we were talking about money,
and began telling funny stories about moral hazard — which somehow,

DEBT

before too long, had morphed into a long and not particularly engross-
ing account of one of his sexual conquests. I drifted off.

Still, for several days afterward, that phrase kept resonating in
my head.

"Surely one has to pay one's debts."

The reason it's so powerful is that it's not actually an economic
statement: it's a moral statement. After all, isn't paying one's debts
what morality is supposed to be all about? Giving people what is due
them. Accepting one's responsibilities. Fulfilling one's obligations to
others, just as one would expect them to fulfill their obligations to you.
What could be a more obvious example of shirking one's responsibili-
ties than reneging on a promise, or refusing to pay a debt?

It was that very apparent self-evidence, I realized, that made the
statement so insidious. This was the kind of line that could make ter-
rible things appear utterly bland and unremarkable. This may sound
strong, but it's hard not to feel strongly about such matters once you've
witnessed the effects. I had. For almost two years, I had lived in the
highlands of Madagascar. Shortly before I arrived, there had been an
outbreak of malaria. It was a particularly virulent outbreak because
malaria had been wiped out in highland Madagascar many years be-
fore, so that, after a couple of generations, most people had lost their
immunity. The problem was, it took money to maintain the mosquito
eradication program, since there had to be periodic tests to make sure
mosquitoes weren't starting to breed again and spraying campaigns if it
was discovered that they were. Not a lot of money. But owing to IMF-
imposed austerity programs, the government had to cut the monitoring
program. Ten thousand people died. I met young mothers grieving for
lost children. One might think it would be hard to make a case that the
loss of ten thousand human lives is really justified in order to ensure
that Citibank wouldn't have to cut its losses on one irresponsible loan
that wasn't particularly important to its balance sheet anyway. But
here was a perfectly decent woman — one who worked for a charitable
organization, no less — who took it as self-evident that it was. After all,
they owed the money, and surely one has to pay one's debts.

For the next few weeks, that phrase kept coming back at me. Why
debt? What makes the concept so strangely powerful? Consumer debt
is the lifeblood of our economy. All modern nation-states are built on
deficit spending. Debt has come to be the central issue of international

ON THE EXPERIENCE OF MORAL CONFUSION

politics. But nobody seems to know exactly what it is, or how to think
about it.

The very fact that we don't know what debt is, the very flexibility
of the concept, is the basis of its power. If history shows anything, it
is that there's no better way to justify relations founded on violence,
to make such relations seem moral, than by reframing them in the
language of debt — above all, because it immediately makes it seem that
it's the victim who's doing something wrong. Mafiosi understand this.
So do the commanders of conquering armies. For thousands of years,
violent men have been able to tell their victims that those victims owe
them something. If nothing else, they "owe them their lives" (a telling
phrase) because they haven't been killed.

Nowadays, for example, military aggression is defined as a crime
against humanity, and international courts, when they are brought
to bear, usually demand that aggressors pay compensation. Germa-
ny had to pay massive reparations after World War I, and Iraq is
still paying Kuwait for Saddam Hussein's invasion in 1990. Yet the
Third World debt, the debt of countries like Madagascar, Bolivia, and
the Philippines, seems to work precisely the other way around. Third
World debtor nations are almost exclusively countries that have at one
time been attacked and conquered by European countries — often, the
very countries to whom they now owe money. In 1895, for example,
France invaded Madagascar, disbanded the government of then-Queen
Ranavalona III, and declared the country a French colony. One of the
first things General Gallieni did after "pacification," as they liked to
call it then, was to impose heavy taxes on the Malagasy population,
in part so they could reimburse the costs of having been invaded, but
also, since French colonies were supposed to be fiscally self-supporting,
to defray the costs of building the railroads, highways, bridges, planta-
tions, and so forth that the French regime wished to build. Malagasy
taxpayers were never asked whether they wanted these railroads, high-
ways, bridges, and plantations, or allowed much input into where and
how they were built.1 To the contrary: over the next half century, the
French army and police slaughtered quite a number of Malagasy who
objected too strongly to the arrangement (upwards of half a million, by
some reports, during one revolt in 1947). It's not as if Madagascar has
ever done any comparable damage to France. Despite this, from the be-
ginning, the Malagasy people were told they owed France money, and
to this day, the Malagasy people are still held to owe France money,
and the rest of the world accepts the justice of this arrangement. When
the "international community" does perceive a moral issue, it's usually

DEBT

when they feel the Malagasy government is being slow to pay their
debts.

But debt is not just victor's justice; it can also be a way of pun-
ishing winners who weren't supposed to win. The most spectacular
example of this is the history of the Republic of Haiti — the first poor
country to be placed in permanent debt peonage. Haiti was a nation
founded by former plantation slaves who had the temerity not only
to rise up in rebellion, amidst grand declarations of universal rights
and freedoms, but to defeat Napoleon's armies sent to return them to
bondage. France immediately insisted that the new republic owed it 150
million francs in damages for the expropriated plantations, as well as
the expenses of outfitting the failed military expeditions, and all other
nations, including the United States, agreed to impose an embargo on
the country until it was paid. The sum was intentionally impossible
(equivalent to about 18 billion dollars), and the resultant embargo en-
sured that the name "Haiti" has been a synonym for debt, poverty, and
human misery ever since.2

Sometimes, though, debt seems to mean the very opposite. Starting
in the 1980s, the United States, which insisted on strict terms for the re-
payment of Third World debt, itself accrued debts that easily dwarfed
those of the entire Third World combined — mainly fueled by military
spending. The U.S. foreign debt, though, takes the form of treasury
bonds held by institutional investors in countries (Germany, Japan,
South Korea, Taiwan, Thailand, the Gulf States) that are in most cases,
effectively, U.S. military protectorates, most covered in U.S. bases full
of arms and equipment paid for with that very deficit spending. This
has changed a little now that China has gotten in on the game (China
is a special case, for reasons that will be explained later), but not very
much — even China finds that the fact it holds so many U.S. treasury
bonds makes it to some degree beholden to U.S. interests, rather than
the other way around.

So what is the status of all this money continually being funneled
into the U.S. treasury? Are these loans? Or is it tribute? In the past,
military powers that maintained hundreds of military bases outside
their own home territory were ordinarily referred to as "empires," and
empires regularly demanded tribute from subject peoples. The U.S.
government, of course, insists that it is not an empire — but one could
easily make a case that the only reason it insists on treating these pay-
ments as "loans" and not as "tribute" is precisely to deny the reality
of what's going on.

Now, it's true that, throughout history, certain sorts of debt, and
certain sorts of debtor, have always been treated differently than

ON THE EXPERIENCE OF MORAL CONFUSION

others. In the 1720s, one of the things that most scandalized the British
public when conditions at debtors' prisons were exposed in the popular
press was the fact that these prisons were regularly divided into two
sections. Aristocratic inmates, who often thought of a brief stay in Fleet
or Marshalsea as something of a fashion statement, were wined and
dined by liveried servants and allowed to receive regular visits from
prostitutes. On the "common side," impoverished debtors were shack-
led together in tiny cells, "covered with filth and vermin," as one report
put it, "and suffered to die, without pity, of hunger and jail fever.'"

In a way you can see current world economic arrangements as a
much larger version of the same thing: the U.S. in this case being the
Cadillac debtor, Madagascar the pauper starving in the next cell —
while the Cadillac debtors' servants lecture him on how his problems
are due to his own irresponsibility.

And there's something more fundamental going on here, a philo-
sophical question, even, that we might do well to contemplate. What
is the difference between a gangster pulling out a gun and demand-
ing you give him a thousand dollars of "p/otection money," and that
same gangster pulling out a gun and demanding you provide him with
a thousand-dollar "loan"? In most ways, obviously, nothing. But in
certain ways there is a difference. As in the case of the U.S. debt to
Korea or Japan, were the balance of power at any point to shift, were
America to lose its military supremacy, were the gangster to lose his
henchmen, that "loan" might start being treated very differently. It
might become a genuine liability. But the crucial element would still
seem to be the gun.

There's an old vaudeville gag that makes the same point even more
elegantly — here, as improved on by Steve Wright:

I was walking down the street with a friend the other day and
a guy with a gun jumps out of an alley and says "stick 'em up."

As I pull out my wallet, I figure, "shouldn't be a total loss."
So I pull out some money, turn to my friend and say, "Hey,
Fred, here's that fifty bucks I owe you."

The robber was so offended he took out a thousand dollars
of his own money, forced Fred to lend it to me at gunpoint,
and then took it back again.

In the final analysis, the man with the gun doesn't have to do anything
he doesn't want to do. But in order to be able to run even a regime
based on violence effectively, one needs to establish some kind of set of
rules. The rules can be completely arbitrary. In a way it doesn't even

DEBT

matter what they are. Or, at least, it doesn't matter at first. The prob-
lem is, the moment one starts framing things in terms of debt, people
will inevitably start asking who really owes what to whom.

Arguments about debt have been going on for at least five thou-
sand years. For most of human history — at least, the history of states
and empires — most human beings have been told that they are debt-
ors.4 Historians, and particularly historians of ideas, have been oddly
reluctant to consider the human consequences; especially since this
situation — more than any other — has caused continual outrage and re-
sentment. Tell people they are inferior, they are unlikely to be pleased,
but this surprisingly rarely leads to armed revolt. Tell people that they
are potential equals who have failed, and that therefore, even what
they do have they do not deserve, that it isn't rightly theirs, and you
are much more likely to inspire rage. Certainly this is what history
would seem to teach us. For thousands of years, the struggle between
rich and poor has largely taken the form of conflicts between creditors
and debtors — of arguments about the rights and wrongs of interest
payments, debt peonage, amnesty, repossession, restitution, the seques-
tering of sheep, the seizing of vineyards, and the selling of debtors' chil-
dren into slavery. By the same token, for the last five thousand years,
with remarkable regularity, popular insurrections have begun the same
way: with the ritual destruction of the debt records — tablets, papyri,
ledgers, whatever form they might have taken in any particular time
and place. (After that, rebels usually go after the records of landholding
and tax assessments.) As the great classicist Moses Finley often liked
to say, in the ancient world, all revolutionary movements had a single
program: "Cancel the debts and redistribute the land."5

Our tendency to overlook this is all the more peculiar when you
consider how much of our contemporary moral and religious language
originally emerged directly from these very conflicts. Terms like "reck-
oning" or "redemption" are only the most obvious, since they're taken
directly from the language of ancient finance. In a larger sense, the
same can be said of "guilt," "freedom," "forgiveness," and even "sin."
Arguments about who really owes what to whom have played a central
role in shaping our basic vocabulary of right and wrong.

The fact that so much of this language did take shape in arguments
about debt has left the concept strangely incoherent. After all, to argue
with the king, one has to use the king's language, whether or not the
initial premises make sense.

If one looks at the history of debt, then, what one discovers first
of all is profound moral confusion. Its most obvious manifestation is
that most everywhere, one finds that the majority of human beings

ON THE EXPERIENCE OF MORAL CONFUSION

hold simultaneously that (i) paying back money one has borrowed is
a simple matter of morality, and (2) anyone in the habit of lending
money is evil.

It's true that opinions on this latter point do shift back and forth.
One extreme possibility might be the situation the French anthropolo-
gist Jean-Claude Galey encountered in a region of the eastern Himala-
yas, where as recently as the 1970s, the low-ranking castes — they were
referred to as "the vanquished ones," since they were thought to be
descended from a population once conquered by the current landlord
caste, many centuries before — lived in a situation of permanent debt
dependency. Landless and penniless, they were obliged to solicit loans
from the landlords simply to find a way to eat — not for the money,
since the sums were paltry, but because poor debtors were expected
to pay back the interest in the form of work, which meant they were
at least provided with food and shelter while they cleaned out their
creditors' outhouses and reroofed their sheds. For the "vanquished" —
as for most people in the world, actually — the most significant life
expenses were weddings and funerals. These required a good deal of
money, which always had to be borrowed. In such cases it was com-
mon practice, Galey explains, for high-caste moneylenders to demand
one of the borrower's daughters as security. Often, when a poor man
had to borrow money for his daughter's marriage, the security would
be the bride herself. She would be expected to report to the lender's
household after her wedding night, spend a few months there as his
concubine, and then, once he grew bored, be sent off to some nearby
timber camp, where she would have to spend the next year or two as
a prostitute working off her father's debt. Once it was paid off, she'd
return to her husband and begin her married life.6

This seems shocking, outrageous even, but Galey does not report
any widespread feeling of injustice. Everyone seemed to feel that this
was just the way things worked. Neither was there much concern
voiced among the local Brahmins, who were the ultimate arbiters in
matters of morality — though this is hardly surprising, since the most
prominent moneylenders were often Brahmins themselves.

Even here, of course, it's hard to know what people were saying
behind closed doors. If a group of Maoist rebels were to suddenly seize
control of the area (some do operate in this part of rural India) and
round up the local usurers for trial, we might hear all sorts of views
expressed.

Still, what Galey describes represents, as I say, one extreme of
possibility: one in which the usurers themselves are the ultimate moral
authorities. Compare this with, say, medieval France, where the moral

DEBT

status of moneylenders was seriously in question. The Catholic Church
had always forbidden the practice of lending money at interest, but
the rules often fell into desuetude, causing the Church hierarchy to
authorize preaching campaigns, sending mendicant friars to travel from
town to town warning usurers that unless they repented and made
full restitution of all interest extracted from their victims, they would
surely go to Hell.

These sermons, many of which have survived, are full of horror
stories of God's judgment on unrepentant lenders: stories of rich men
struck down by madness or terrible diseases, haunted by deathbed
nightmares of the snakes or demons who would soon rend or eat
their flesh. In the twelfth century, when such campaigns reached their
heights, more direct sanctions began to be employed. The papacy is-
sued instructions to local parishes that all known usurers were to be
excommunicated; they were not to be allowed to receive the sacra-
ments, and under no conditions could their bodies be buried on hal-
lowed ground. One French cardinal, Jacques de Vitry, writing around
1210, recorded the story of a particularly influential moneylender whose
friends tried to pressure their parish priest to overlook the rules and
allow him to be buried in the local churchyard:

Since the dead usurer's friends were very insistent, the priest
yielded to their pressure and said, "Let us put his body on a
donkey and see God's will, and what He will do with the body.
Wherever the donkey takes it, be it a church, a cemetery, or
elsewhere, there will I bury it." The body was placed upon the
donkey which without deviating either to right or left, took it
straight out of town to the place where thieves are hanged from
the gibbet, and with a hearty buck, sent the cadaver flying into
the dung beneath the gallows.7

Looking over world literature, it is almost impossible to find a single
sympathetic representation of a moneylender — or anyway, a profes-
sional moneylender, which means by definition one who charges inter-
est. I'm not sure there is another profession (executioners?) with such
a consistently bad image. It's especially remarkable when one considers
that unlike executioners, usurers often rank among the richest and
most powerful people in their communities. Yet the very name, "usu-
rer," evokes images of loan sharks, blood money, pounds of flesh, the
selling of souls, and behind them all, the Devil, often represented as
himself a kind of usurer, an evil accountant with his books and ledgers,
or alternately, as the figure looming just behind the usurer, biding his

ON THE EXPERIENCE OF MORAL CONFUSION

time until he can repossess the soul of a villain who, by his very oc-
cupation, has clearly made a compact with Hell.

Historically, there have been only two effective ways for a lender
to try to wriggle out of the opprobrium: either shunt off responsibility
onto some third party, or insist that the borrower is even worse. In me-
dieval Europe, for instance, lords often took the first approach, employ-
ing Jews as surrogates. Many would even speak of "our" Jews — that is,
Jews under their personal protection — though in practice this usually
meant that they would first deny Jews in their territories any means
of making a living except by usury (guaranteeing that they would, be
widely detested), then periodically turn on them, claiming they were
detestable creatures, and take the money for themselves. The second
approach is of course more common. But it usually leads to the conclu-
sion that both parties to a loan are equally guilty; the whole affair is a
shabby business; and most likely, both are damned.

Other religious traditions have different perspectives. In medieval
Hindu law codes, not only were interest-bearing loans permissible (the
main stipulation was that interest should never exceed principal), but
it was often emphasized that a debtor who did not pay would be
reborn as a slave in the household of his creditor — or in later codes,
reborn as his horse or ox. The same tolerant attitude toward lenders,
and warnings of karmic revenge against borrowers, reappear in many
strands of Buddhism. Even so, the moment that usurers were thought
to go too far, exactly the same sort of stories as found in Europe would
start appearing. A Medieval Japanese author recounts one — he insists
it's a true story — about the terrifying fate of Hiromushime, the wife
of a wealthy district governor around 776 ad. An exceptionally greedy
woman,

she would add water to the rice wine she sold and make a
huge profit on such diluted sake. On the day she loaned some-
thing to someone she would use a small measuring cup, but
on the day of collection she used a large one. When lending
rice her scale registered small portions, but when she received
payment it was in large amounts. The interest that she forcibly
collected was tremendous — often as much as ten or even one
hundred times the amount of the original loan. She was rigid
about collecting debts, showing no mercy whatsoever. Because
of this, many people were thrown into a state of anxiety; they
abandoned their households to get away from her and took to
wandering in other provinces.8

DEBT

After she died, for seven days, monks prayed over her sealed coffin. On
the seventh, her body mysteriously sprang to life:

Those who came to look at her encountered an indescribable
stench. From the waist up she had already become an ox with
four-inch horns protruding from her forehead. Her two hands
had become the hooves of an ox, her nails were now cracked so
that they resembled an ox hoof's instep. From the waist down,
however, her body was that of a human. She disliked rice and
preferred to eat grass. Her manner of eating was rumination.
Naked, she would lie in her own excrement.9

Gawkers descended. Guilty and ashamed, the family made desperate
attempts to buy forgiveness, canceling all debts owed to them by any-
body, donating much of their wealth to religious establishments. Fi-
nally, mercifully, the monster died.

The author, himself a monk, felt that the story represented a clear
case of premature reincarnation — the woman was being punished by
the law of karma for her violations of "what is both reasonable and
right." His problem was that Buddhist scriptures, insofar as they ex-
plicitly weighed in on the matter, didn't provide a precedent. Normally,
it was debtors who were supposed to be reborn as oxen, not creditors.
As a result, when it came time to explain the moral of the story, his
exposition grew decidedly confusing:

It is as one sutra says: "When we do not repay the things that
we have borrowed, our payment becomes that of being reborn
as a horse or ox." "The debtor is like a slave, the creditor is
like a master." Or again: "a debtor is a pheasant and his credi-
tor a hawk." If you are in a situation of having granted a loan,
do not put unreasonable pressure on your debtor for repay-
ment. If you do, you will be reborn as a horse or an ox and be
put to work for him who was in debt to you, and then you will
repay many times over.10

So which will it be? They can't both end up as animals in each other's
barns.

All the great religious traditions seem to bang up against this quan-
dary in one form or another. On the one hand, insofar as all human re-
lations involve debt, they are all morally compromised. Both parties are
probably already guilty of something just by entering into the relation-
ship; at the very least they run a significant danger of becoming guilty

ON THE EXPERIENCE OF MORAL CONFUSION

if repayment is delayed. On the other hand, when we say someone acts
like they "don't owe anything to anybody," we're hardly describing the
person as a paragon of virtue. In the secular world, morality consists
largely of fulfilling our obligations to others, and we have a stubborn
tendency to imagine those obligations as debts. Monks, perhaps, can
avoid the dilemma by detaching themselves from the secular world
entirely, but the rest of us appear condemned to live in a universe that
doesn't make a lot of sense.

The story of Hiromushime is a perfect illustration of the impulse to
throw the accusation back at the accuser — just as in the story about
the dead usurer and the donkey, the emphasis on excrement, animals,
and humiliation is clearly meant as poetic justice, the creditor forced to
experience the same feelings of disgrace and degradation that debtors
are always made to feel. It's all a more vivid, more visceral way of ask-
ing that same question: "Who really owes what to whom?"

It's also a perfect illustration of how the moment one asks the
question "Who really owes what to whom?," one has begun to adopt
the creditor's language. Just as if we don't pay our debts, "our payment
becomes that of being reborn as a horse or an ox"; so if you are an
unreasonable creditor, you too will "repay." Even karmic justice can
thus be reduced to the language of a business deal.

Here we come to the central question of this book: What, precisely,
does it mean to say that our sense of morality and justice is reduced to
the language of a business deal? What does it mean when we reduce
moral obligations to debts? What changes when the one turns into
the other? And how do we speak about them when our language has
been so shaped by the market? On one level the difference between an
obligation and a debt is simple and obvious. A debt is the obligation
to pay a certain sum of money. As a result, a debt, unlike any other
form of obligation, can be precisely quantified. This allows debts to
become simple, cold, and impersonal — which, in turn, allows them to
be transferable. If one owes a favor, or one's life, to another human
being — it is owed to that person specifically. But if one owes forty
thousand dollars at 12-percent interest, it doesn't really matter who the
creditor is; neither does either of the two parties have to think much
about what the other party needs, wants, is capable of doing — as they
certainly would if what was owed was a favor, or respect, or gratitude.
One does not need to calculate the human effects; one need only cal-
culate principal, balances, penalties, and rates of interest. If you end

DEBT

up having to abandon your home and wander in other provinces, if
your daughter ends up in a mining camp working as a prostitute, well,
that's unfortunate, but incidental to the creditor. Money is money, and
a deal's a deal.

From this perspective, the crucial factor, and a topic that will be
explored at length in these pages, is money's capacity to turn moral-
ity into a matter of impersonal arithmetic — and by doing so, to justify
things that would otherwise seem outrageous or obscene. The factor
of violence, which I have been emphasizing up until now, may appear
secondary. The difference between a "debt" and a mere moral obliga-
tion is not the presence or absence of men with weapons who can en-
force that obligation by seizing the debtor's possessions or threatening
to break his legs. It is simply that a creditor has the means to specify,
numerically, exactly how much the debtor owes.

However, when one looks a little closer, one discovers that these
two elements — the violence and the quantification — are intimately
linked. In fact it's almost impossible to find one without the other.
French usurers had powerful friends and enforcers, capable of bullying
even Church authorities. How else would they have collected debts
that were technically illegal? Hiromushime was utterly uncompromis-
ing with her debtors — "showing no mercy whatsoever" — but then, her
husband was the governor. She didn't have to show mercy. Those
of us who do not have armed men behind us cannot afford to be
so exacting.

The way violence, or the threat of violence, turns human relations
into mathematics will crop up again and again over the course of this
book. It is the ultimate source of the moral confusion that seems to
float around everything surrounding the topic of debt. The resulting
dilemmas appear to be as old as civilization itself. We can observe the
process in the very earliest records from ancient Mesopotamia; it finds
its first philosophical expression in the Vedas, reappears in endless
forms throughout recorded history, and still lies underneath the essen-
tial fabric of our institutions today — state and market, our most basic
conceptions of the nature of freedom, morality, sociality — all of which
have been shaped by a history of war, conquest, and slavery in ways
we're no longer capable of even perceiving because we can no longer
imagine things any other way.

There are obvious reasons why this is a particularly important moment
to reexamine the history of debt. September 2008 saw the beginning of

ON THE EXPERIENCE OF MORAL CONFUSION

a financial crisis that almost brought the entire world economy screech-
ing to a halt. In many ways the world economy did: ships stopped
moving across the oceans, and thousands were placed in dry dock.
Building cranes were dismantled, as no more buildings were being put
up. Banks largely ceased making loans. In the wake of this, there was
not only public rage and bewilderment, but the beginning of an actual
public conversation about the nature of debt, of money, of the financial
institutions that have come to hold the fate of nations in their grip.

But that was just a moment. The conversation never ended up tak-
ing place.

The reason that people were ready for such a conversation was
that the story everyone had been told for the last decade or so had just
been revealed to be a colossal lie. There's really no nicer way to say
it. For years, everyone had been hearing of a whole host of new, ultra-
sophisticated financial innovations: credit and commodity derivatives,
collateralized mortgage obligation derivatives, hybrid securities, debt
swaps, and so on. These new derivative markets were so incredibly
sophisticated, that — according to one persistent story — a prominent in-
vestment house had to employ astrophysicists to run trading programs
so complex that even the financiers couldn't begin to understand them.
The message was transparent: leave these things to the professionals.
You couldn't possibly get your minds around this. Even if you don't
like financial capitalists very much (and few seemed inclined to argue
that there was much to like about them), they were nothing if not capa-
ble, in fact so preternaturally capable, that democratic oversight of fi-
nancial markets was simply inconceivable. (Even a lot of academics fell
for it. I well remember going to conferences in 2006 and 2007 where
trendy social theorists presented papers arguing that these new forms
of securitization, linked to new information technologies, heralded a
looming transformation in the very nature of time, possibility — reality
itself. I remember thinking: "Suckers!" And so they were.)

Then, when the rubble had stopped bouncing, it turned out that
many if not most of them had been nothing more than very elaborate
scams. They consisted of operations like selling poor families mort-
gages crafted in such a way as to make eventual default inevitable;
taking bets on how long it would take the holders to default; packag-
ing mortgage and bet together and selling them to institutional inves-
tors (representing, perhaps, the mortgage-holders' retirement accounts)
claiming that it would make money no matter what happened, and al-
low said investors to pass such packages around as if they were money;
turning over responsibility for paying off the bet to a giant insurance
conglomerate that, were it to sink beneath the weight of its resultant

DEBT

debt (which certainly would happen), would then have to be bailed out
by taxpayers (as such conglomerates were indeed bailed out).11 In other
words, it looks very much like an unusually elaborate version of what
banks were doing when they lent money to dictators in Bolivia and
Gabon in the late '70s: make utterly irresponsible loans with the full
knowledge that, once it became known they had done so, politicians
and bureaucrats would scramble to ensure that they'd still be reim-
bursed anyway, no matter how many human lives had to be devastated
and destroyed in order to do it.

The difference, though, was that this time, the bankers were doing
it on an inconceivable scale: the total amount of debt they had run up
was larger than the combined Gross Domestic Products of every coun-
try in the world — and it threw the world into a tailspin and almost
destroyed the system itself.

Armies and police geared up to combat the expected riots and
unrest, but none materialized. But neither have any significant changes
in how the system is run. At the time, everyone assumed that, with the
very defining institutions of capitalism (Lehman Brothers, Citibank,
General Motors) crumbling, and all claims to superior wisdom revealed
to be false, we would at least restart a broader conversation about the
nature of debt and credit institutions. And not just a convwersation.

It seemed that most Americans were open to radical solutions.
Surveys showed that an overwhelming majority of Americans felt that
the banks should not be rescued, whatever the economic consequences,
but that ordinary citizens stuck with bad mortgages should be bailed
out. In the United States this is quite extraordinary. Since colonial days,
Americans have been the population least sympathetic to debtors. In a
way this is odd, since America was settled largely by absconding debt-
ors, but it's a country where the idea that morality is a matter of pay-
ing one's debts runs deeper than almost any other. In colonial days, an
insolvent debtor's ear was often nailed to a post. The United States was
one of the last countries in the world to adopt a law of bankruptcy: de-
spite the fact that in 1787, the Constitution specifically charged the new
government with creating one, all attempts were rejected on "moral
grounds" until 1898. 12 The change was epochal. For this very reason,
perhaps, those in charge of moderating debate in the media and legisla-
tures decided that this was not the time. The United States government
effectively put a three-trillion-dollar Band-Aid over the problem and
changed nothing. The bankers were rescued; small-scale debtors — with
a paltry few exceptions — were not.13 To the contrary, in the middle of
the greatest economic recession since the '30s, we are already begin-
ning to see a backlash against them — driven by financial corporations

ON THE EXPERIENCE OF MORAL CONFUSION

who have now turned to the same government that bailed them out
to apply the full force of the law against ordinary citizens in financial
trouble. "It's not a crime to owe money," reports the Minneapolis-St.
Paul StarTribune, "But people are routinely being thrown in jail for
failing to pay debts." In Minnesota, "the use of arrest warrants against
debtors has jumped 60 percent over the past four years, with 845 cases
in 2009 ... In Illinois and southwest Indiana, some judges jail debtors
for missing court-ordered debt payments. In extreme cases, people stay
in jail until they raise a minimum payment. In January [2010], a judge
sentenced a Kenney, 111., man 'to indefinite incarceration' until he came
up with $300 toward a lumber yard debt."14

In other words, we are moving toward a restoration of some-
thing much like debtors' prisons. Meanwhile, the conversation stopped
dead, popular rage against bailouts sputtered into incoherence, and
we seem to be tumbling inexorably toward the next great financial
catastrophe — the only real question being just how long it will take.

We have reached the point at which the IMF itself, now trying to
reposition itself as the conscience of global capitalism, has begun to
issue warnings that if we continue on the present course, no bailout
is likely to be forthcoming the next time. The public simply will not
stand for it, and as a result, everything really will come apart. "IMF
Warns Second Bailout Would 'Threaten Democracy'" reads one recent
headline.15 (Of course by "democracy" they mean "capitalism.") Surely
it means something that even those who feel they are responsible for
keeping the current global economic system running, who just a few
years ago acted as if they could simply assume the current system
would be around forever, are now seeing apocalypse everywhere.

In this case, the IMF has a point. We have every reason to believe that
we do indeed stand on the brink of epochal changes.

Admittedly, the usual impulse is to imagine everything around us
as absolutely new. Nowhere is this so true as with money. How many
times have we been told that the advent of virtual money, the dema-
terialization of cash into plastic and dollars into blips of electronic
information, has brought us to an unprecedented new financial world?
The assumption that we were in such uncharted territory, of course,
was one of the things that made it so easy for the likes of Goldman
Sachs and AIG to convince people that no one could possibly under-
stand their dazzling new financial instruments. The moment one casts
matters on a broad historical scale, though, the first thing one learns

DEBT

is that there's nothing new about virtual money. Actually, this was the
original form of money. Credit system, tabs, even expense accounts, all
existed long before cash. These things are as old as civilization itself.
True, we also find that history tends to move back and forth between
periods dominated by bullion — where it's assumed that gold and silver
are money — and periods where money is assumed to be an abstrac-
tion, a virtual unit of account. But historically, credit money comes
first, and what we are witnessing today is a return of assumptions that
would have been considered obvious common sense in, say, the Middle
Ages — or even ancient Mesopotamia.

But history does provide fascinating hints of what we might expect.
For instance: in the past, ages of virtual credit money almost invari-
ably involve the creation of institutions designed to prevent everything
going haywire — to stop the lenders from teaming up with bureaucrats
and politicians to squeeze everybody dry, as they seem to be doing
now. They are accompanied by the creation of institutions designed to
protect debtors. The new age of credit money we are in seems to have
started precisely backwards. It began with the creation of global insti-
tutions like the IMF designed to protect not debtors, but creditors. At
the same time, on the kind of historical scale we're talking about here,
a decade or two is nothing. We have very little idea what to expect.'

This book is a history of debt, then, but it also uses that history as
a way to ask fundamental questions about what human beings and
human society are or could be like — what we actually do owe each
other, what it even means to ask that question. As a result, the book
begins by attempting to puncture a series of myths — not only the Myth
of Barter, which is taken up in the first chapter, but also rival myths
about primordial debts to the gods, or to the state — that in one way or
another form the basis of our common-sense assumptions about the na-
ture of economy and society. In that common-sense view, the State and
the Market tower above all else as diametrically opposed principles.
Historical reality reveals, however, that they were born together and
have always been intertwined. The one thing that all these misconcep-
tions have in common, we will find, is that they tend to reduce all hu-
man relations to exchange, as if our ties to society, even to the cosmos
itself, can be imagined in the same terms as a business deal. This leads
to another question: If not exchange, then what? In chapter five, I will
begin to answer the question by drawing on the fruits of anthropol-
ogy to describe a view of the moral basis of economic life; then return

ON THE EXPERIENCE OF MORAL CONFUSION

to the question of the origins of money to demonstrate how the very
principle of exchange emerged largely as an effect of violence — that the
real origins of money are to be found in crime and recompense, war
and slavery, honor, debt, and redemption. That, in turn, opens the way
to starting, with chapter eight, an actual history of the last five thou-
sand years of debt and credit, with its great alternations between ages
of virtual and physical money. Many of the discoveries here are pro-
foundly unexpected: from the origins of modern conceptions of rights
and freedoms in ancient slave law, to the origins of investment capital
in medieval Chinese Buddhism, to the fact that many of Adam Smith's
most famous arguments appear to have been cribbed from the works
of free-market theorists from medieval Persia (a story which, inciden-
tally, has interesting implications for understanding the current appeal
of political Islam). All of this sets the stage for a fresh approach to the
last five hundred years, dominated by capitalist empires, and allows us
to at least begin asking what might really be at stake in the present day.

For a very long time, the intellectual consensus has been that we
can no longer ask Great Questions. Increasingly, it's looking like we
have no other choice.

Chapter Two

THE MYTH OF BARTER

For every subtle and complicated
question, there is a perfectly simple
and straightforward answer, which is
wrong.

— H.L. Mencken

WHAT IS THE DIFFERENCE between a mere obligation, a sense that
one ought to behave in a certain way, or even that one owes something
to someone, and a debt, properly speaking? The answer is simple:
money. The difference between a debt and an obligation is that a debt
can be precisely quantified. This requires money.

Not only is it money that makes debt possible: money and debt ap-
pear on the scene at exactly the same time. Some of the very first writ-
ten documents that have come down to us are Mesopotamian tablets
recording credits and debits, rations issued by temples, money owed
for rent of temple lands, the value of each precisely specified in grain
and silver. Some of the earliest works of moral philosophy, in turn, are
reflections on what it means to imagine morality as debt — that is, in
terms of money.

A history of debt, then, is thus necessarily a history of money — and
the easiest way to understand the role that debt has played in human
society is simply to follow the forms that money has taken, and the
way money has been used, across the centuries — and the arguments
that inevitably ensued about what all this means. Still, this is neces-
sarily a very different history of money than we are used to. When
economists speak of the origins of money, for example, debt is always
something of an afterthought. First comes barter, then money; credit
only develops later. Even if one consults books on the history of money
in, say, France, India, or China, what one generally gets is a history
of coinage, with barely any discussion of credit arrangements at all.
For almost a century, anthropologists like me have been pointing out

DEBT

that there is something very wrong with this picture. The standard
economic-history version has little to do with anything we observe
when we examine how economic life is actually conducted, in real
communities and marketplaces, almost anywhere — where one is much
more likely to discover everyone in debt to everyone else in a dozen
different ways, and that most transactions take place without the use
of currency.

Why the discrepancy?

Some of it is just the nature of the evidence: coins are preserved in
the archeological record; credit arrangements usually are not. Still, the
problem runs deeper. The existence of credit and debt has always been
something of a scandal for economists, since it's almost impossible to
pretend that those lending and borrowing money are acting on purely
"economic" motivations (for instance, that a loan to a stranger is the
same as a loan to one's cousin); it seems important, therefore, to begin
the story of money in an imaginary world from which credit and debt
have been entirely erased. Before we can apply the tools of anthropol-
ogy to reconstruct the real history of money, we need to understand
what's wrong with the conventional account.

Economists generally speak of three functions of money: medium
of exchange, unit of account, and store of value. All economic text-
books treat the first as primary. Here's a fairly typical extract from
Economics, by Case, Fair, Gartner, and Heather (1996):

Money is vital to the working of a market economy. Imagine
what life would be like without it. The alternative to a mon-
etary economy is barter, people exchanging goods and services
for other goods and services directly instead of exchanging via
the medium of money.

How does a barter system work? Suppose you want crois-
sants, eggs and orange juice for breakfast. Instead of going to
the grocer's and buying these things with money, you would
have to find someone who has these items and is willing to
trade them. You would also have to have something the baker,
the orange juice purveyor and the egg vendor want. Having
pencils to trade will do you no good if the baker and the or-
ange juice and egg sellers do not want pencils.

A barter system requires a double coincidence of wants for
trade to take place. That is, to effect a trade, I need not only
have to find someone who has what I want, but that person
must also want what I have. Where the range of traded goods
is small, as it is in relatively unsophisticated economies, it is

THE MYTH OF BARTER

not difficult to find someone to trade with, and barter is often
used.1

This latter point is questionable, but it's phrased in so vague a way that
it would be hard to disprove.

In a complex society with many goods, barter exchanges in-
volve an intolerable amount of effort. Imagine trying to find
people who offer for sale all the things you buy in a typical trip
to the grocer's, and who are willing to accept goods that you
have to offer in exchange for their goods.

Some agreed-upon medium of exchange (or means of pay-
ment) neatly eliminates the double coincidence of wants prob-
lem.2

It's important to emphasize that this is not presented as something
that actually happened, but as a purely imaginary exercise. "To see
that society benefits from a medium of exchange" write Begg, Fischer
and Dornbuch {Economics, 2005), "imagine a barter economy." "Imag-
ine the difficulty you would have today," write Maunder, Myers, Wall,
and Miller {Economics Explained, 1991), "if you had to exchange your
labor directly for the fruits of someone else's labor." "Imagine," write
Parkin and King {Economics, 1995), "you have roosters, but you want
roses."3 One could multiply examples endlessly. Just about every eco-
nomics textbook employed today sets out the problem the same way.
Historically, they note, we know that there was a time when there
was no money. What must it have been like? Well, let us imagine an
economy something like today's, except with no money. That would
have been decidedly inconvenient! Surely, people must have invented
money for the sake of efficiency.

The story of money for economists always begins with a fantasy
world of barter. The problem is where to locate this fantasy in time
and space: Are we talking about cave men, Pacific Islanders, the Ameri-
can frontier? One textbook, by economists Joseph Stiglitz and John
Driffill, takes us to what appears to be an imaginary New England or
Midwestern town:

One can imagine an old-style farmer bartering with the black-
smith, the tailor, the grocer, and the doctor in his small town.
For simple barter to work, however, there must be a double
coincidence of wants . . . Henry has potatoes and wants shoes,
Joshua has an extra pair of shoes and wants potatoes. Bartering

DEBT

can make them both happier. But if Henry has firewood and
Joshua does not need any of that, then bartering for Joshua's
shoes requires one or both of them to go searching for more
people in the hope of making a multilateral exchange. Money
provides a way to make multilateral exchange much simpler.
Henry sells his firewood to someone else for money and uses
the money to buy Joshua's shoes.4

Again this is just a make-believe land much like the present, except
with money somehow plucked away. As a result it makes no sense:
Who in their right mind would set up a grocery in such a place? And
how would they get supplies? But let's leave that aside. There is a
simple reason why everyone who writes an economics textbook feels
they have to tell us the same story. For economists, it is in a very real
sense the most important story ever told. It was by telling it, in the
significant year of 1776, that Adam Smith, professor of moral philoso-
phy at the University of Glasgow, effectively brought the discipline of
economics into being.

He did not make up the story entirely out of whole cloth. Already
in 330 bc, Aristotle was speculating along vaguely similar lines in his
treatise on politics. At first, he suggested, families must have produced
everything they needed for themselves. Gradually, some would presum-
ably have specialized, some growing corn, others making wine, swap-
ping one for the other.5 Money, Aristotle assumed, must have emerged
from such a process. But, like the medieval schoolmen who occasion-
ally repeated the story, Aristotle was never clear as to how.6

In the years after Columbus, as Spanish and Portuguese adven-
turers were scouring the world for new sources of gold and silver,
these vague stories disappear. Certainly no one reported discovering a
land of barter. Most sixteenth- and seventeenth-century travelers in the
West Indies or Africa assumed that all societies would necessarily have
their own forms of money, since all societies had governments and all
governments issued money.7

Adam Smith, on the other hand, was determined to overturn the
conventional wisdom of his day. Above all, he objected to the notion
that money was a creation of government. In this, Smith was the intel-
lectual heir of the Liberal tradition of philosophers like John Locke,
who had argued that government begins in the need to protect private
property and operated best when it tried to limit itself to that function.
Smith expanded on the argument, insisting that property, money and
markets not only existed before political institutions but were the very
foundation of human society. It followed that insofar as government

THE MYTH OF BARTER

should play any role in monetary affairs, it should limit itself to guar-
anteeing the soundness of the currency. It was only by making such an
argument that he could insist that economics is itself a field of human
inquiry with its own principles and laws — that is, as distinct from, say
ethics or politics.

Smith's argument is worth laying out in detail because it is, as I
say, the great founding myth of the discipline of economics.

What, he begins, is the basis of economic life, properly speaking?
It is "a certain propensity in human nature . . . the propensity to truck,
barter, and exchange one thing for another." Animals don't do this.
"Nobody," Smith observes, "ever saw a dog make a fair and deliberate
exchange of one bone for another with another dog."8 But humans, if
left to their own devices, will inevitably begin swapping and comparing
things. This is just what humans do. Even logic and conversation are
really just forms of trading, and as in all things, humans will always
try to seek their own best advantage, to seek the greatest profit they
can from the exchange.9

It is this drive to exchange, in turn, which creates that division of
labor responsible for all human achievement and civilization. Here the
scene shifts to another one of those economists' faraway fantasylands —
it seems to be an amalgam of North American Indians and Central
Asian pastoral nomads:10

In a tribe of hunters or shepherds a particular person makes
bows and arrows, for example, with more readiness and dex-
terity than any other. He frequently exchanges them for cattle
or for venison with his companions; and he finds at last that
he can in this manner get more cattle and venison, than if he
himself went to the field to catch them. From a regard to his
own interest, therefore, the making of bows and arrows grows
to be his chief business, and he becomes a sort of armourer.
Another excels in making the frames and covers of their little
huts or moveable houses. He is accustomed to be of use in this
way to his neighbours, who reward him in the same manner
with cattle and with venison, till at last he finds it his interest
to dedicate himself entirely to this employment, and to become
a sort of house-carpenter. In the same manner a third becomes
a smith or a brazier; a fourth a tanner or dresser of hides or
skins, the principal- part of the clothing of savages . . .

It's only once we have expert arrow-makers, wigwam-makers, and
so on that people start realizing there's a problem. Notice how, as in

DEBT

so many examples, we have a tendency to slip from imaginary savages
to small-town shopkeepers.

' But when the division of labor first began to take place, this
power of exchanging must frequently have been very much
clogged and embarrassed in its operations. One man, we shall
suppose, has more of a certain commodity than he himself has
occasion for, while another has less. The former consequently
would be glad to dispose of, and the latter to purchase, a part
of this superfluity. But if this latter should chance to have noth-
ing that the former stands in need of, no exchange can be made
between them. The butcher has more meat in his shop than
he himself can consume, and the brewer and the baker would
each of them be willing to purchase a part of it. But they have
nothing to offer in exchange . . .

In order to avoid the inconveniency of such situations, every
prudent man in every period of society, after the first establish-
ment of the division of labor, must naturally have endeavored
to manage his affairs in such a manner, as to have at all times
by him, besides the peculiar produce of his own industry, a
certain quantity of some one commodity or other, such as he
imagined that few people would be likely to refuse in exchange
for the produce of their industry."

So everyone will inevitably start stockpiling something they figure
that everyone else is likely to want. This has a paradoxical effect,
because at a certain point, rather than making that commodity less
valuable (since everyone already has some) it becomes more valuable
(because it becomes, effectively, currency):

Salt is said to be the common instrument of commerce and
exchanges in Abyssinia; a species of shells in some parts of
the coast of India; dried cod at Newfoundland; tobacco in
Virginia; sugar in some of our West India colonies; hides or
dressed leather in some other countries; and there is at this day
a village in Scotland where it is not uncommon, I am told, for
a workman to carry nails instead of money to the baker's shop
or the ale-house.'2

THE MYTH OF BARTER

Eventually, of course, at least for long-distance trade, it all boils
down to precious metals, since these are ideally suited to serve as cur-
rency, being durable, portable, and able to be endlessly subdivided into
identical portions.

Different metals have been made use of by different nations
for this purpose. Iron was the common instrument of com-
merce among the ancient Spartans; copper among the ancient
Romans; and gold and silver among all rich and commercial
nations.

Those metals seem originally to have been made use of for this
purpose in rude bars, without any stamp or coinage . . .

The use of metals in this rude state was attended with two very
considerable inconveniencies; first with the trouble of weigh-
ing; and, secondly, with that of assaying them. In the precious
metals, where a small difference in the quantity makes a great
difference in the value, even the business of weighing, with
proper exactness, requires at least very accurate weights and
scales. The weighing of gold in particular is an operation of
some nicety . . .13

It's easy to see where this is going. Using irregular metal ingots is
easier than barter, but wouldn't standardizing the units — say, stamp-
ing pieces of metal with uniform designations guaranteeing weight and
fineness, in different denominations — make things easier still? Clearly it
would, and so was coinage born. True, issuing coinage meant govern-
ments had to get involved, since they generally ran the mints; but in the
standard version of the story, governments have only this one limited
role — to guarantee the money supply — and tend to do it badly, since
throughout history, unscrupulous kings have often cheated by debasing
the coinage and causing inflation and other sorts of political havoc in
what was originally a matter of simple economic common sense.

Tellingly, this story played a crucial role not only in founding the
discipline of economics, but in the very idea that there was something
called "the economy," which operated by its own rules, separate from
moral or political life, that economists could take as their field of study.

DEBT

"The economy" is where we indulge in our natural propensity to truck
and barter. We are still trucking and bartering. We always will be.
Money is simply the most efficient means.

Economists like Karl Menger and Stanley Jevons later improved
on the details of the story, most of all by adding various mathemati-
cal equations to demonstrate that a random assortment of people with
random desires could, in theory, produce not only a single commodity
to use as money but a uniform price system. In the process, they also
substituted all sorts of impressive technical vocabulary (i.e., "inconve-
niences" became "transaction costs"). The crucial thing, though, is that
by now, this story has become simple common sense for most people.
We teach it to children in schoolbooks and museums. Everybody knows
it. "Once upon a time, there was barter. It was difficult. So people in-
vented money. Then came the development of banking and credit." It
all forms a perfectly simple, straightforward progression, a process of
increasing sophistication and abstraction that has carried humanity,
logically and inexorably, from the Stone Age exchange of mastodon
tusks to stock markets, hedge funds, and securitized derivatives.'4

It really has become ubiquitous. Wherever we find money, we also
find the story. At one point, in the town of Arivonimamo, in Madagas-
car, I had the privilege of interviewing a Kalanoro, a tiny ghostly crea-
ture that a local spirit medium claimed to keep hidden away in a chest
in his home. The spirit belonged to the brother of a notorious local
loan shark, a horrible woman named Nordine, and to be honest I was
a bit reluctant to have anything to do with the family, but some of my
friends insisted — since after all, this was a creature from ancient times.
The creature spoke from behind a screen in an eerie, otherworldly qua-
ver. But all it was really interested in talking about was money. Finally,
slightly exasperated by the whole charade, I asked, "So, what did you
use for money back in ancient times, when you were still alive?"

The mysterious voice immediately replied, "No. We didn't use
money. In ancient times we used to barter commodities directly, one
for the other ..."

The story, then, is everywhere. It is the founding myth of our system of
economic relations. It is so deeply established in common sense, even
in places like Madagascar, that most people on earth couldn't imagine
any other way that money possibly could have come about.

The problem is there's no evidence that it ever happened, and an
enormous amount of evidence suggesting that it did not.

THE MYTH OF BARTER

For centuries now, explorers have been trying to find this fabled
land of barter — none with success. Adam Smith set his story in aborigi-
nal North America (others preferred Africa or the Pacific). In Smith's
time, at least it could be said that reliable information on Native Amer-
ican economic systems was unavailable in Scottish libraries. But by
mid-century, Lewis Henry Morgan's descriptions of the Six Nations
of the Iroquois, among others, were widely published — and they made
clear that the main economic institution among the Iroquois nations
were longhouses where most goods were stockpiled and then allocated
by women's councils, and no one ever traded arrowheads for slabs of
meat. Economists simply ignored this information.15 Stanley Jevons,
for example, who in 1871 wrote what has come to be considered the
classic book on the origins of money, took his examples straight from
Smith, with Indians swapping venison for elk and beaver hides, and
made no use of actual descriptions of Indian life that made it clear that
Smith had simply made this up. Around that same time, missionaries,
adventurers, and colonial administrators were fanning out across the
world, many bringing copies of Smith's book with them, expecting to
find the land of barter. None ever did. They discovered an almost end-
less variety of economic systems. But to this day, no one has been able
to locate a part of the world where the ordinary mode of economic
transaction between neighbors takes the form of "I'll give you twenty
chickens for that cow."

The definitive anthropological work on barter, by Caroline Hum-
phrey, of Cambridge, could not be more definitive in its conclusions:
"No example of a barter economy, pure and simple, has ever been
described, let alone the emergence from it of money; all available eth-
nography suggests that there never has been such a thing."1*

Now, all this hardly means that barter does not exist — or even
that it's never practiced by the sort of people that Smith would refer to
as "savages." It just means that it's almost never employed, as Smith
imagined, between fellow villagers. Ordinarily, it takes place between
strangers, even enemies. Let us begin with the Nambikwara of Brazil.
They would seem to fit all the criteria: they are a simple society with-
out much in the way of division of labor, organized into small bands
that traditionally numbered at best a hundred people each. Occasion-
ally if one band spots the cooking fires of another in their vicinity, they
will send emissaries to negotiate a meeting for purposes of trade. If the
offer is accepted, they will first hide their women and children in the
forest, then invite the men of other band to visit camp. Each band has
a chief; once everyone has been assembled, each chief gives a formal
speech praising the other party and belittling his own; everyone puts

DEBT

aside their weapons to sing and dance together — though the dance is
one that mimics military confrontation. Then, individuals from each
side approach each other to trade:

If an individual wants an object he extols it by saying how fine
it is. If a man values an object and wants much in exchange for
it, instead of saying that it is very valuable he says that it is no
good, thus showing his desire to keep it. "This axe is no good,
it is very old, it is very dull," he will say, referring to his axe
which the other wants.

This argument is carried on in an angry tone of voice un-
til a settlement is reached. When agreement has been reached
each snatches the object out of the other's hand. If a man has
bartered a necklace, instead of taking it off and handing it
over, the other person must take it off with a show of force.
Disputes, often leading to fights, occur when one party is a
little premature and snatches the object before the other has
finished arguing.17

The whole business concludes with a great feast at which the wom-
en reappear, but this too can lead to problems, since amidst the music
and good cheer, there is ample opportunity for seductions.18 This some-
times led to jealous quarrels. Occasionally, people would get killed.

Barter, then, for all the festive elements, was carried out be-
tween people who might otherwise be enemies and hovered about an
inch away from outright warfare — and, if the ethnographer is to be
believed — if one side later decided they had been taken advantage of, it
could very easily lead to actual wars.

To shift our spotlight halfway around the world to Western Arn-
hem Land in Australia, where the Gunwinggu people are famous for
entertaining neighbors in rituals of ceremonial barter called the dza-
malag. Here the threat of actual violence seems much more distant.
Partly, this is because things are made easier by the existence of a moi-
ety system that embraces the whole region: no one is allowed to marry,
or even have sex with, people of their own moiety, no matter where
they come from, but anyone from the other is technically a potential
match. Therefore, for a man, even in distant communities, half the
women are strictly forbidden, half of them fair game. The region is also
united by local specialization: each people has its own trade product to
be bartered with the others.

What follows is from a description of a dzamalag held in the 1940s,
as observed by an anthropologist named Ronald Berndt.

THE MYTH OF BARTER

Once again, it begins as strangers, after some initial negotiations,
are invited into the hosts' main camp. The visitors in this particular
example were famous for their "much-prized serrated spears" — their
hosts had access to good European cloth. The trading begins when
the visiting party, which consisted of both men and women, enters
the camp's dancing ground of "ring place," and three of them began
to entertain their hosts with music. Two men start singing, a third ac-
companies them on the didjeridu. Before long, women from the hosts'
side come and attack the musicians:

Men and women rise and begin to dance. The dzamalag opens
when two Gunwinggu women of the opposite moiety to the
singing men "give dzamalag" to the latter. They present each
man with a piece of cloth, and hit or touch him, pulling him
down on the ground, calling him a dzamalag husband, and
joking with him in an erotic vein. Then another woman of the
opposite moiety to the pipe player gives him cloth, hits and
jokes with him.

This sets in motion the dzamalag exchange. Men from the
visiting group sit quietly while women of the opposite moiety
come over and give them cloth, hit them, and invite them to
copulate; they take any liberty they choose with the men, amid
amusement and applause, while the singing and dancing con-
tinue. Women try to undo the men's loin coverings or touch
their penises, and to drag them from the "ring place" for co-
itus. The men go with their dzamalag partners, with a show of
reluctance, to copulate in the bushes away from the fires which
light up the dancers. They may give the women tobacco or
beads. When the women return, they give part of this tobacco
to their own husbands, who have encouraged them to go dza-
malag. The husbands, in turn, use the tobacco to pay their own
female dzamalag partners . .

New singers and musicians appear, are again assaulted and dragged
off to the bushes; men encourage their wives "not to be shy," so as to
maintain the Gunwinggu reputation for hospitality; eventually those
men also take the initiative with the visitors' wives, offering cloth, hit-
ting them, and leading them off into the bushes. Beads and tobacco
circulate. Finally, once participants have all paired off at least once,
and the guests are satisfied with the cloth they have acquired, the
women stop dancing and stand in two rows and the visitors line up to
repay them.

DEBT

Then visiting men of one moiety dance towards the women
of the opposite moiety, in order to "give them dzamalag."
They hold shovel-nosed spears poised, pretending to spear the
women, but instead hit them with the flat of the blade. "We
will not spear you, for we have already speared you with our
penises." They present the spears to the women. Then visiting
men of the other moiety go through the same actions with the
women of their opposite moiety, giving them spears with ser-
rated points. This terminates the ceremony, which is followed
by a large distribution of food.20

This is a particularly dramatic case, but dramatic cases are reveal-
ing. What the Gunwinggu hosts appear to have been able to do here,
owing to the relatively amicable relations between neighboring peoples
in Western Arnhem Land, is to take all the elements in Nambikwara
barter (the music and dancing, the potential hostility, the sexual in-
trigue), and turn it all into a kind of festive game — one not, perhaps,
without its dangers, but (as the ethnographer emphasizes) considered
enormous fun by everyone concerned.

What all such cases of trade through barter have in common is that
they are meetings with strangers who will, likely as not, never meet
again, and with whom one certainly will not enter into any ongoing re-
lations. This is why a direct one-on-one exchange is appropriate: each
side makes their trade and walks away. It's all made possible by laying
down an initial mantle of sociability, in the form of shared pleasures,
music and dance — the usual base of conviviality on which trade must
always be built. Then comes the actual trading, where both sides make
a great display of the latent hostility that necessarily exists in any ex-
change of material goods between strangers — where neither party has
no particular reason not to take advantage of the other — by playful
mock aggression, though in the Nambikwara case, where the mantle
of sociability is extremely thin, mock aggression is in constant danger
of slipping over into the real thing. The Gunwinggu, with their more
relaxed attitude toward sexuality, have quite ingeniously managed to
make the shared pleasures and aggression into exactly the same thing.

Recall here the language of the economics textbooks: "Imagine a
society without money." "Imagine a barter economy." One thing these
examples make abundantly clear is just how limited the imaginative
powers of most economists turn out to be.21

Why? The simplest answer would be: for there to even be a disci-
pline called "economics," a discipline that concerns itself first and fore-
most with how individuals seek the most advantageous arrangement

THE MYTH OF BARTER

for the exchange of shoes for potatoes, or cloth for spears, it must
assume that the exchange of such goods need have nothing to do with
war, passion, adventure, mystery, sex, or death. Economics assumes a
division between different spheres of human behavior that, among peo-
ple like the Gunwinngu and the Nambikwara, simply does not exist.
These divisions in turn are made possible by very specific institutional
arrangements: the existence of lawyers, prisons, and police, to ensure
that even people who don't like each other very much, who have no
interest in developing any kind of ongoing relationship, but are simply
interested in getting their hands on as much of the others' possessions
as possible, will nonetheless refrain from the most obvious expedient
(theft). This in turn allows us to assume that life is neatly divided be-
tween the marketplace, where we do our shopping, and the "sphere
of consumption," where we concern ourselves with music, feasts, and
seduction. In other words, the vision of the world that forms the basis
of the economics textbooks, which Adam Smith played so large a part
in promulgating, has by now become so much a part of our common
sense that we find it hard to imagine any other possible arrangement.

From these examples, it begins to be clear why there are no societ-
ies based on barter. Such a society could only be one in which every-
body was an inch away from everybody else's throat; but nonetheless
hovering there, poised to strike but never actually striking, forever.
True, barter does sometimes occur between people who do not consid-
er each other strangers, but they're usually people who might as well be
strangers — that is, who feel no sense of mutual responsibility or trust,
or the desire to develop ongoing relations. The Pukhtun of Northern
Pakistan, for instance, are famous for their open-handed hospitality.
Barter is what you do with those to whom you are not bound by ties
of hospitality (or kinship, or much of anything else):

A favorite mode of exchange among men is barter, or adal-
badal (give and take). Men are always on the alert for the
possibility of bartering one of their possessions for something
better. Often the exchange is like for like: a radio for a radio,
sunglasses for sunglasses, a watch for a watch. However, un-
like objects can also be exchanged, such as, in one instance, a
bicycle for two donkeys. Adal-badal is always practiced with
non-relatives and affords men a great deal of pleasure as they
attempt to get the advantage over their exchange partner. A
good exchange, in which a man feels he has gotten the better
of the deal, is cause for bragging and pride. If the exchange is
bad, the recipient tries to renege on the deal or, failing that, to

DEBT

palm off the faulty object on someone unsuspecting. The best
partner in adal-badal is someone who is distant spatially and
will therefore have little opportunity to complain.22

Neither are such unscrupulous motives limited to Central Asia.
They seem inherent to the very nature of barter — which would explain
the fact that in the century or two before Smith's time, the English
words "truck and barter," like their equivalents in French, Spanish,
German, Dutch, and Portuguese, literally meant "to trick, bamboozle,
or rip off."23 Swapping one thing directly for another while trying to
get the best deal one can out of the transaction is, ordinarily, how
one deals with people one doesn't care about and doesn't expect to
see again. What reason is there not to try to take advantage of such
a person? If, on the other hand, one cares enough about someone — a
neighbor, a friend — to wish to deal with her fairly and honestly, one
will inevitably also care about her enough to take her individual needs,
desires, and situation into account. Even if you do swap one thing for
another, you are likely to frame the matter as a gift.

To illustrate what I mean by this, let's return to the economics text-
books and the problem of the "double coincidence of wants." When
we left Henry, he needed a pair of shoes, but all he had lying around
were some potatoes. Joshua had an extra pair of shoes, but he didn't
really need potatoes. Since money has not yet been invented, they have
a problem. What are they to do?

The first thing that should be clear by now is that we'd really have
to know a bit more about Joshua and Henry. Who are they? Are they
related? If so, how? They appear to live in a small community. Any two
people who have been living their lives in the same small community
will have some sort of complicated history with each other. Are they
friends, rivals, allies, lovers, enemies, or several of these things at once?

The authors of the original example seem to assume two neighbors
of roughly equal status, not closely related, but on friendly terms — that
is, as close to neutral equality as one can get. Even so, this doesn't say
much. For example, if Henry was living in a Seneca longhouse, and
needed shoes, Joshua would not even enter into it; he'd simply men-
tion it to his wife, who'd bring up the matter with the other matrons,
fetch materials from the longhouse's collective storehouse, and sew him
some. Alternately, to find a scenario fit for an imaginary economics

THE MYTH OF BARTER

textbook, we might place Joshua and Henry together in a small, inti-
mate community like a Nambikwara or Gunwinggu band.

SCENARIO 1

Henry walks up to Joshua and says "Nice shoes!"

Joshua says, "Oh, they're not much, but since you seem to like
them, by all means take them."

Henry takes the shoes.

Henry's potatoes are not at issue since both parties are perfectly
well aware that if Joshua were ever short of potatoes, Henry would
give him some.

And that's about it. Of course it's not clear, in this case, how long
Henry will actually get to keep the shoes. It probably depends on how
nice they are. If they were just ordinary shoes, this might be the end of
the matter. If they are in any way unique or beautiful, they might end
up being passed around. There's a famous story that John and Lorna
Marshall, who carried out a study of Kalahari Bushmen in the '60s,
once gave a knife to one of their favorite informants. They left and
came back a year later, only to discover that pretty much everyone in
the band had been in possession of the knife at some point in between.
On the other hand, several Arab friends confirm to me that in less
strictly egalitarian contexts, there is an expedient. If a friend praises a
bracelet or bag, you are normally expected to immediately say "take
it" — but if you are really determined to hold on to it, you can always
say, "yes, isn't it beautiful? It was a gift."

But clearly, the authors of the textbook have a slightly more im-
personal transaction in mind. The authors seem to imagine the two
men as the heads of patriarchal households, on good terms with each
other, but who keep their own supplies. Perhaps they live in one of
those Scottish villages with the butcher and the baker in Adam Smith's
examples, or a colonial settlement in New England. Except for some
reason they've never heard of money. It's a peculiar fantasy, but let's
see what we can do:

SCENARIO 2

Henry walks up to Joshua and says, "Nice shoes!"

Or, perhaps — let's make this a bit more realistic — Henry's wife
is chatting with Joshua's and strategically lets slip that the state of
Henry's shoes is getting so bad he's complaining about corns.

DEBT

The message is conveyed, and Joshua comes by the next day to
offer his extra pair to Henry as a present, insisting that this is just
a neighborly gesture. He would certainly never want anything in
return.

It doesn't matter whether Joshua is sincere in saying this. By do-
ing so, Joshua thereby registers a credit. Henry owes him one.

How might Henry pay Joshua back? There are endless possi-
bilities. Perhaps Joshua really does want potatoes. Henry waits a
discrete interval and drops them off, insisting that this too is just a
gift. Or Joshua doesn't need potatoes now but Henry waits until he
does. Or maybe a year later, Joshua is planning a banquet, so he
comes strolling by Henry's barnyard and says "Nice pig . . ."

In any of these scenarios, the problem of "double coincidence of
wants," so endlessly invoked in the economics textbooks, simply disap-
pears. Henry might not have something Joshua wants right now. But
if the two are neighbors, it's obviously only a matter of time before
he will.24

This in turn means that the need to stockpile commonly acceptable
items in the way that Smith suggested disappears as well. With it goes
the need to develop currency. As with so many actual small communi-
ties, everyone simply keeps track of who owes what to whom.

There is just one major conceptual problem here — one the atten-
tive reader might have noticed. Henry "owes Joshua one." One what?
How do you quantify a favor? On what basis do you say that this
many potatoes, or this big a pig, seems more or less equivalent to a
pair of shoes? Because even if these things remain rough-and-ready ap-
proximations, there must be some way to establish that X is roughly
equivalent to Y, or slightly worse or slightly better. Doesn't this imply
that something like money, at least in the sense of a unit of accounts
by which one can compare the value of different objects, already has
to exist?

In most gift economies, there actually is a rough-and-ready way
to solve the problem. One establishes a series of ranked categories of
types of thing. Pigs and shoes may be considered objects of roughly
equivalent status, one can give one in return for the other; coral neck-
laces are quite another matter, one would have to give back another
necklace, or at least another piece of jewelry — anthropologists are used
to referring to these as creating different "spheres of exchange."25 This
does simplify things somewhat. When cross-cultural barter becomes a
regular and unexceptional thing, it tends to operate according to simi-
lar principles: there are only certain things traded for certain others

THE MYTH OF BARTER

(cloth for spears, for example), which makes it easy to work out tra-
ditional equivalences. However, this doesn't help us at all with the
problem of the origin of money. Actually, it makes it infinitely worse.
Why stockpile salt or gold or fish if they can only be exchanged for
some things and not others?

In fact, there is good reason to believe that barter is not a par-
ticularly ancient phenomenon at all, but has only really become wide-
spread in modern times. Certainly in most of the cases we know about,
it takes place between people who are familiar with the use of money,
but for one reason or another, don't have a lot of it around. Elaborate
barter systems often crop up in the wake of the collapse of national
economies: most recently in Russia in the '90s, and in Argentina around
2002, when rubles in the first case, and dollars in the second, effectively
disappeared.26 Occasionally one can even find some kind of currency
beginning to develop: for instance, in POW camps and many prisons,
inmates have indeed been known to use cigarettes as a kind of cur-
rency, much to the delight and excitement of professional economists.27
But here too we are talking about people who grew up using money
and now have to make do without it — exactly the situation "imagined"
by the economics textbooks with which I began.

The more frequent solution is to adopt some sort of credit system.
When much of Europe "reverted to barter" after the collapse of the
Roman Empire, and then again after the Carolingian Empire likewise
fell apart, this seems to be what happened. People continued keeping
accounts in the old imperial currency, even if they were no longer us-
ing coins.28 Similarly, the Pukhtun men who like to swap bicycles for
donkeys are hardly unfamiliar with the use of money. Money has ex-
isted in that part of the world for thousands of years. They just prefer
direct exchange between equals — in this case, because they consider it
more manly.29

The most remarkable thing is that even in Adam Smith's examples
of fish and nails and tobacco being used as money, the same sort of
thing was happening. In the years following the appearance of The
Wealth of Nations, scholars checked into most of those examples and
discovered that in just about every case, the people involved were quite
familiar with the use of money, and in fact, were using money — as a
unit of account.30 Take the example of dried cod, supposedly used as
money in Newfoundland. As the British diplomat A. Mitchell-Innes
pointed out almost a century ago, what Smith describes was really an
illusion, created by a simple credit arrangement:

DEBT

In the early days of the Newfoundland fishing industry, there
was no permanent European population; the fishers went there
for the fishing season only, and those who were not fishers
were traders who bought the dried fish and sold to the fishers
their daily supplies. The latter sold their catch to the traders at
the market price in pounds, shillings and pence, and obtained
in return a credit on their books, with which they paid for their
supplies. Balances due by the traders were paid for by drafts on
England or France.31

It was quite the same in the Scottish village. It's not as if anyone
actually walked into the local pub, plunked down a roofing nail, and
asked for a pint of beer. Employers in Smith's day often lacked coin
to pay their workers; wages could be delayed by a year or more; in
the meantime, it was considered acceptable for employees to carry off
either some of their own products or leftover work materials, lumber,
fabric, cord, and so on. The nails were de facto interest on what their
employers owed them. So they went to the pub, ran up a tab, and when
occasion permitted, brought in a bag of nails to charge off against the
debt. The law making tobacco legal tender in Virginia seems to have
been an attempt by planters to oblige local merchants to accept their
products as a credit around harvest time. In effect, the law forced all
merchants in Virginia to become middlemen in the tobacco business,
whether they liked it or not; just as all West Indian merchants were
obliged to become sugar dealers, since that's what all their wealthier
customers brought in to write off against their debt.

The primary examples, then, were ones in which people were
improvising credit systems, because actual money — gold and silver
coinage — was in short supply. But the most shocking blow to the con-
ventional version of economic history came with the translation, first of
Egyptian hieroglyphics, and then of Mesopotamian cuneiform, which
pushed back scholars' knowledge of written history almost three mil-
lennia, from the time of Homer (circa 800 bc), where it had hovered in
Smith's time, to roughly 3500 bc. What these texts revealed was that
credit systems of exactly this sort actually preceded the invention of
coinage by thousands of years.

The Mesopotamian system is the best-documented, more so than
that of Pharaonic Egypt (which appears similar), Shang China (about
which we know little), or the Indus Valley civilization (about which
we know nothing at all). As it happens, we know a great deal about
Mesopotamia, since the vast majority of cuneiform documents were
financial in nature.

THE MYTH OF BARTER

The Sumerian economy was dominated by vast temple and palace
complexes. These were often staffed by thousands: priests and officials,
craftspeople who worked in their industrial workshops, farmers and
shepherds who worked their considerable estates. Even though ancient
Sumer was usually divided into a large number of independent city-
states, by the time the curtain goes up on Mesopotamian civilization
around 3500, temple administrators already appear to have developed
a single, uniform system of accountancy — one that is in some ways
still with us, actually, because it's to the Sumerians that we owe such
things as the dozen or the 24-hour day.32 The basic monetary unit was
the silver shekel. One shekel's weight in silver was established as the
equivalent of one gur, or bushel of barley. A shekel was subdivided
into 60 minas, corresponding to one portion of barley — on the prin-
ciple that there were 30 days in a month, and Temple workers received
two rations of barley every day. It's easy to see that "money" in this
sense is in no way the product of commercial transactions. It was ac-
tually created by bureaucrats in order to keep track of resources and
move things back and forth between departments.

Temple bureaucrats used the system to calculate debts (rents, fees,
loans . . .) in silver. Silver was, effectively, money. And it did indeed
circulate in the form of unworked chunks, "rude bars" as Smith had
put it.33 In this he was right. But it was almost the only part of his ac-
count that was right. One reason was that silver did not circulate very
much. Most of it just sat around in Temple and Palace treasuries, some
of which remained, carefully guarded, in the same place for literally
thousands of years. It would have been easy enough to standardize the
ingots, stamp them, create some authoritative system to guarantee their
purity. The technology existed. Yet no one saw any particular need to
do so. One reason was that while debts were calculated in silver, they
did not have to be paid in silver — in fact, they could be paid in more
or less anything one had around. Peasants who owed money to the
Temple or Palace, or to some Temple or Palace official, seem to have
settled their debts mostly in barley, which is why fixing the ratio of sil-
ver to barley was so important. But it was perfectly acceptable to show
up with goats, or furniture, or lapis lazuli. Temples and Palaces were
huge industrial operations — they could find a use for almost anything.34

In the marketplaces that cropped up in Mesopotamian cities, pric-
es were also calculated in silver, and the prices of commodities that
weren't entirely controlled by the Temples and Palaces would tend to
fluctuate according to supply and demand. But even here, such evidence
as we have suggests that most transactions were based on credit. Mer-
chants (who sometimes worked for the Temples, sometimes operated

DEBT

independently) were among the few people who did, often, actually use
silver in transactions; but even they mostly did much of their dealings
on credit, and ordinary people buying beer from "ale women," or lo-
cal innkeepers, once again, did so by running up a tab, to be settled at
harvest time in barley or anything they might have had at hand.35

At this point, just about every aspect of the conventional story of
the origins of money lay in rubble. Rarely has an historical theory been
so absolutely and systematically refuted. By the early decades of the
twentieth century, all the pieces were in place to completely rewrite
the history of money. The groundwork was laid by Mitchell-Innes —
the same one I've already cited on the matter of the cod — in two essays
that appeared in New York's Banking Law Journal in 1913 and 1914.
In these, Mitchell-Innes matter-of-factly laid out the false assumptions
on which existing economic history was based and suggested that what
was really needed was a history of debt:

One of the popular fallacies in connection with commerce is
that in modern days a money-saving device has been intro-
duced called credit and that, before this device was known,
all, purchases were paid for in cash, in other words in coins. A
careful investigation shows that the precise reverse is true. In
olden days coins played a far smaller part in commerce than
they do to-day. Indeed so small was the quantity of coins, that
they did not even suffice for the needs of the [Medieval Eng-
lish] Royal household and estates which regularly used tokens
of various kinds for the purpose of making small payments. So
unimportant indeed was the coinage that sometimes Kings did
not hesitate to call it all in for re-minting and re-issue and still
commerce went on just the same.36

In fact, our standard account of monetary history is precisely
backwards. We did not begin with barter, discover money, and then
eventually develop credit systems. It happened precisely the other way
around. What we now call virtual money came first. Coins came much
later, and their use spread only unevenly, never completely replacing
credit systems. Barter, in turn, appears to be largely a kind of acciden-
tal byproduct of the use of coinage or paper money: historically, it has
mainly been what people who are used to cash transactions do when
for one reason or another they have no access to currency.

The curious thing is that it never happened. This new history was
never written. It's not that any economist has ever refuted Mitchell-Innes.
They just ignored him. Textbooks did not change their story — even if

THE MYTH OF BARTER

all the evidence made clear that the story was simply wrong. People
still write histories of money that are actually histories of coinage, on
the assumption that in the past, these were necessarily the same thing;
periods when coinage largely vanished are still described as times when
the economy "reverted to barter," as if the meaning of this phrase is
self-evident, even though no one actually knows what it means. As a
result we have next-to-no idea how, say, the inhabitant of a Dutch
town in 950 ad actually went about acquiring cheese or spoons or hir-
ing musicians to play at his daughter's wedding — let alone how any of
this was likely to be arranged in Pemba or Samarkand.'7

Chapter Three

PRIMORDIAL DEBTS

In being born every being is born as
debt owed to the gods, the saints, the
Fathers and to men. If one makes a sac-
rifice, it is because of a debt owing to
the gods from birth . . . If one recites a
sacred text, it is because of a debt owing
to the saints . . . If one wishes for off-
spring, it is because of a debt due to the
fathers from birth . . . And if one gives
hospitality, it is because it is a debt ow-
ing to men.

— Satapatha Brahmana 1.7.12, 1-6

Let us drive away the evil effects of bad
dreams, just as we pay off debts.

— Rig Veda 8.47.17

THE REASON THAT economics textbooks now begin with imaginary
villages is because it has been impossible to talk about real ones. Even
some economists have been forced to admit that Smith's Land of Barter
doesn't really exist.1

The question is why the myth has been perpetuated, anyway.
Economists have long since jettisoned other elements of The Wealth of
Nations — for instance, Smith's labor theory of value and disapproval
of joint-stock corporations. Why not simply write off the myth of bar-
ter as a quaint Enlightenment parable, and instead attempt to under-
stand primordial credit arrangements — or anyway, something more in
keeping with the historical evidence?

The answer seems to be that the Myth of Barter cannot go away,
because it is central to the entire discourse of economics.

DEBT

Recall here what Smith was trying to do when he wrote The
Wealth of Nations. Above all, the book was an attempt to establish
the newfound discipline of economics as a science. This meant that not
only did economics have its own peculiar domain of study — what we
now call "the economy," though the idea that there even was some-
thing called an "economy" was very new in Smith's day — but that
this economy operated according to laws of much the same sort as
Sir Isaac Newton had so recently identified as governing the physical
world. Newton had represented God as a cosmic watchmaker who had
created the physical machinery of the universe in such a way that it
would operate for the ultimate benefit of humans, and then let it run
on its own. Smith was trying to make a similar, Newtonian argument.2
God — or Divine Providence, as he put it — had arranged matters in
such a way that our pursuit of self-interest would nonetheless, given an
unfettered market, be guided "as if by an invisible hand" to promote
the general welfare. Smith's famous invisible hand was, as he says in
his Theory of Moral Sentiments, the agent of Divine Providence. It was
literally the hand of God.'

Once economics had been established as a discipline, the theological
arguments no longer seemed necessary or important. People continue
to argue about whether an unfettered free market really will produce
the results that Smith said it would; but no one questions whether "the
market" naturally exists. The underlying assumptions that derive from
this came to be seen as common sense — so much so that, as I've noted,
we simply assume that when valuable objects do change hands, it will
normally be because two individuals have both decided they would
gain a material advantage by swapping them. One interesting corollary
is that, as a result, economists have come to see the very question of
the presence or absence of money as not especially important, since
money is just a commodity, chosen to facilitate exchange, and which
we use to measure the value of other commodities. Otherwise, it has no
special qualities. Still, in 1958, Paul Samuelson, one of the leading lights
of the neoclassical school that still predominates in modern economic
thought, could express disdain for what he called "the social contriv-
ance of money." "Even in the most advanced industrial economies," he
insisted, "if we strip exchange down to its barest essentials and peel off
the obscuring layer of money, we find that trade between individuals
and nations largely boils down to barter."4 Others spoke of a "veil of
money" obscuring the nature of the "real economy" in which people
produced real goods and services and swapped them back and forth.5

Call this the final apotheosis of economics as common sense.
Money is unimportant. Economies — "real economies" — are really vast

PRIMORDIAL DEBTS

barter systems. The problem is that history shows that without money,
such vast barter systems do not occur. Even when economies "revert to
barter," as Europe was said to do in the Middle Ages, they don't actu-
ally abandon the use of money. They just abandon the use of cash. In
the Middle Ages, for instance, everyone continued to assess the value
of tools and livestock in the old Roman currency, even if the coins
themselves had ceased to circulate.6

It's money that had made it possible for us to imagine ourselves in
the way economists encourage us to do: as a collection of individuals
and nations whose main business is swapping things. It's also clear that
the mere existence of money, in itself, is not enough to allow us see the
world this way. If it were, the discipline of economics would have been
created in ancient Sumer, or anyway, far earlier than 1776, when Adam
Smith's The Wealth of Nations appeared.

The missing element is in fact exactly the thing Smith was at-
tempting to downplay: the role of government policy. In England, in
Smith's day, it became possible to see the market, the world of butch-
ers, ironmongers, and haberdashers, as its own entirely independent
sphere of human activity because the British government was actively
engaged in fostering it. This required laws and police, but also, specific
monetary policies, which liberals like Smith were (successfully) advo-
cating.7 It required pegging the value of the currency to silver, but at
the same time greatly increasing the money supply, and particularly
the amount of small change in circulation. This not only required
huge amounts of tin and copper, but also the careful regulation of the
banks that were, at that time, the only source of paper money. The
century before The Wealth of Nations had seen at least two attempts
to create state-supported central banks, in France and Sweden, that
had proven to be spectacular failures. In each case, the would-be cen-
tral bank issued notes based largely on speculation that collapsed the
moment investors lost faith. Smith supported the use of paper money,
but like Locke before him, he also believed that the relative success
of the Bank of England and Bank of Scotland had been due to their
policy of pegging paper money firmly to precious metals. This became
the mainstream economic view, so much so that alternative theories of
money as credit — the one that Mitchell-Innes advocated — were quickly
relegated to the margins, their proponents written off as cranks, and
the very sort of thinking that led to bad banks and speculative bubbles
in the first place.

It might be helpful, then, to consider what these alternative theo-
ries actually were.

DEBT

State and Credit Theories of Money

Mitchell-Innes was an exponent of what came to be known as the
Credit Theory of money, a position that over the course of the nine-
teenth century had its most avid proponents not in Mitchell-Innes's
native Britain but in the two up-and-coming rival powers of the day,
the United States and Germany. Credit Theorists insisted that money
is not a commodity but an accounting tool. In other words, it is not a
"thing" at all. You can no more touch a dollar or a deutschmark than
you can touch an hour or a cubic centimeter. Units of currency are
merely abstract units of measurement, and as the credit theorists cor-
rectly noted, historically, such abstract systems of accounting emerged
long before the use of any particular token of exchange.8

The obvious next question is: If money is a just a yardstick, what
then does it measure? The answer was simple: debt. A coin is, effec-
tively, an IOU. Whereas conventional wisdom holds that a banknote is,
or should be, a promise to pay a certain amount of "real money" (gold,
silver, whatever that might be taken to mean), Credit Theorists argued
that a banknote is simply the promise to pay something of the same
value as an ounce of gold. But that's all that money ever is. There's
no fundamental difference in this respect between a silver dollar, a
Susan B. Anthony dollar coin made of a copper-nickel alloy designed
to look vaguely like gold, a green piece of paper with a picture of
George Washington on it, or a digital blip on some bank's computer.
Conceptually, the idea that a piece of gold is really just an IOU is
always rather difficult to wrap one's head around, but something like
this must be true, because even when gold and silver coins were in use,
they almost never circulated at their bullion value.

How could credit money come about? Let us return to the econom-
ics professors' imaginary town. Say, for example, that Joshua were
to give his shoes to Henry, and, rather than Henry owing him a fa-
vor, Henry promises him something of equivalent value.9 Henry gives
Joshua an IOU. Joshua could wait for Henry to have something use-
ful, and then redeem it. In that case Henry would rip up the IOU and
the story would be over. But say Joshua were to pass the IOU on to a
third party — Sheila — to whom he owes something else. He could tick
it off against his debt to a fourth party, Lola — now Henry will owe
that amount to her. Hence is money born. Because there's no logical
end to it. Say Sheila now wishes to acquire a pair of shoes from Edith;
she can just hand Edith the IOU, and assure her that Henry is good
for it. In principle, there's no reason that the IOU could not continue

PRIMORDIAL DEBTS

circulating around town for years — provided people continue to have
faith in Henry. In fact, if it goes on long enough, people might forget
about the issuer entirely. Things like this do happen. The anthropolo-
gist Keith Hart once told me a story about his brother, who in the '50s
was a British soldier stationed in Hong Kong. Soldiers used to pay their
bar tabs by writing checks on accounts back in England. Local mer-
chants would often simply endorse them over to each other and pass
them around as currency: once, he saw one of his own checks, written
six months before, on the counter of a local vendor covered with about
forty different tiny inscriptions in Chinese.

What credit theorists like Mitchell-Innes were arguing is that even
if Henry gave Joshua a gold coin instead of a piece of paper, the situ-
ation would be essentially the same. A gold coin is a promise to pay
something else of equivalent value to a gold coin. After all, a gold coin
is not actually useful in itself. One only accepts it because one assumes
other people will.

In this sense, the value of a unit of currency is not the measure
of the value of an object, but the measure of one's trust in other
human beings.

This element of trust of course makes everything more compli-
cated. Early banknotes circulated via a process almost exactly like
what I've just described, except that, like the Chinese merchants, each
recipient added his or her signature to guarantee the debt's legitimacy.
But generally, the difficulty in the Chartalist position — this is what
it came to be called, from the Latin charta, or token — is to establish
why people would continue to trust a piece of paper. After all, why
couldn't anyone just sign Henry's name on an IOU? True, this sort
of debt-token system might work within a small village where every-
one knew one another, or even among a more dispersed community
like sixteenth-century Italian or twentieth-century Chinese merchants,
where everyone at least had ways of keeping track of everybody else.
But systems like these cannot create a full-blown currency system, and
there's no evidence that they ever have. Providing a sufficient number
of IOUs to allow everyone even in a medium-sized city to be able to
carry out a significant portion of their daily transactions in such cur-
rency would require millions of tokens.10 To be able to guarantee all of
them, Henry would have to be almost unimaginably rich.

All this would be much less of a problem, however, if Henry were,
say, Henry II, King of England, Duke of Normandy, Lord of Ireland,
and Count of Anjou.

The real impetus for the Chartalist position, in fact, came out of
what came to be known as the "German Historical School," whose

DEBT

most famous exponent was the historian G.F. Knapp, whose State
Theory of Money first appeared in 1905. 11 If money is simply a unit
of measure, it makes sense that emperors and kings should concern
themselves with such matters. Emperors and kings are almost always
concerned to established uniform systems of weights and measures
throughout their kingdoms. It is also true, as Knapp observed, that
once established, such systems tend to remain remarkably stable over
time. During the reign of the actual Henry II (1154-1189), just about
everyone in Western Europe was still keeping their accounts using the
monetary system established by Charlemagne some 350 years earlier —
that is, using pounds, shillings, and pence — despite the fact that some
of these coins had never existed (Charlemagne never actually struck
a silver pound), none of Charlemagne's actual shillings and pence re-
mained in circulation, and those coins that did circulate tended to
vary enormously in size, weight, purity, and value.12 According to the
Chartalists, this doesn't really matter. What matters is that there is a
uniform system for measuring credits and debts, and that this system
remains stable over time. The case of Charlemagne's currency is par-
ticularly dramatic because his actual empire dissolved quite quickly,
but the monetary system he created continued to be used, for keeping
accounts, within his former territories for more than 800 years. It was
referred to, in the sixteenth century, quite explicitly as "imaginary
money," and derniers and livres were only completely abandoned, as
units of account, around the time of the French Revolution.13

According to Knapp, whether or not the actual, physical money
stuff in circulation corresponds to this "imaginary money" is not par-
ticularly important. It makes no real difference whether it's pure sil-
ver, debased silver, leather tokens, or dried cod — provided the state
is willing to accept it in payment of taxes. Because whatever the state
was willing to accept, for that reason, became currency. One of the
most important forms of currency in England in Henry's time were
notched "tally sticks" used to record debts. Tally sticks were quite
explicitly IOUs: both parties to a transaction would take a hazelwood
twig, notch it to indicate the amount owed, and then split it in half.
The creditor would keep one half, called "the stock" (hence the origin
of the term "stock holder") and the debtor kept the other, called "the
stub" (hence the origin of the term "ticket stub.") Tax assessors used
such twigs to calculate amounts owed by local sheriffs. Often, though,
rather than wait for the taxes to come due, Henry's exchequer would
often sell the tallies at a discount, and they would circulate, as tokens
of debt owed to the government, to anyone willing to trade for them.14

PRIMORDIAL DEBTS

Modern Banknotes actually work on a similar principle, except in
reverse.15 Recall here the little parable about Henry's IOU. The reader
might have noticed one puzzling aspect of the equation: the IOU can
operate as money only as long as Henry never pays his debt. In fact this
is precisely the logic on which the Bank of England — the first successful
modern central bank — was originally founded. In 1694, a consortium
of English bankers made a loan of £1,200,000 to the king. In return
they received a royal monopoly on the issuance of banknotes. What
this meant in practice was they had the right to advance IOUs for a
portion of the money the king now owed them to any inhabitant of the
kingdom willing to borrow from them, or willing to deposit their own
money in the bank — in effect, to circulate or "monetize" the newly
created royal debt. This was a great deal for the bankers (they got
to charge the king 8 percent annual interest for the original loan and
simultaneously charge interest on the same money to the clients who
borrowed it), but it only worked as long as the original loan remained
outstanding. To this day, this loan has never been paid back. It cannot
be. If it ever were, the entire monetary system of Great Britain would
cease to exist.16

If nothing else, this approach helps solve one of the obvious mys-
teries of the fiscal policy of so many early kingdoms: Why did they
make subjects pay taxes at all? This is not a question we're used to
asking. The answer seems self-evident. Governments demand taxes be-
cause they wish to get their hands on people's money. But if Smith was
right, and gold and silver became money through the natural workings
of the market completely independently of governments, then wouldn't
the obvious thing be to just grab control of the gold and silver mines?
Then the king would have all the money he could possibly need. In
fact, this is what ancient kings would normally do. If there were gold
and silver mines in their territory, they would usually take control of
them. So what exactly was the point of extracting the gold, stamping
one's picture on it, causing it to circulate among one's subjects — and
then demanding that those same subjects give it back again?

This does seem a bit of a puzzle. But if money and markets do not
emerge spontaneously, it actually makes perfect sense. Because this is
the simplest and most efficient way to bring markets into being. Let
us take a hypothetical example. Say a king wishes to support a stand-
ing army of fifty thousand men. Under ancient or medieval conditions,
feeding such a force was an enormous problem — unless they were on
the march, one would need to employ almost as many men and ani-
mals just to locate, acquire, and transport the necessary provisions.17
On the other hand, if one simply hands out coins to the soldiers and

DEBT

then demands that every family in the kingdom was obliged to pay
one of those coins back to you, one would, in one blow, turn one's
entire national economy into a vast machine for the provisioning of
soldiers, since now every family, in order to get their hands on the
coins, must find some way to contribute to the general effort to provide
soldiers with things they want. Markets are brought into existence as a
side effect.

This is a bit of a cartoon version, but it is very clear that markets
did spring up around ancient armies; one need only take a glance at
Kautilya's Arthasasatra, the Sassanian "circle of sovereignty," or the
Chinese "Discourses on Salt and Iron" to discover that most ancient
rulers spent a great deal of their time thinking about the relation be-
tween mines, soldiers, taxes, and food. Most concluded that the cre-
ation of markets of this sort was not just convenient for feeding sol-
diers, but useful in all sorts of ways, since it meant officials no longer
had to requisition everything they needed directly from the populace,
or figure out a way to produce it on royal estates or royal workshops.
In other words, despite the dogged liberal assumption — again, com-
ing from Smith's legacy — that the existence of states and markets are
somehow opposed, the historical record implies that exactly the op-
posite is the case. Stateless societies tend also to be without markets.

As one might imagine, state theories of money have always been
anathema to mainstream economists working in the tradition of Adam
Smith. In fact, Chartalism has tended to be seen as a populist underside
of economic theory, favored mainly by cranks.18 The curious thing is
that the mainstream economists often ended up actually working for
governments and advising such governments to pursue policies much
like those the Chartalists described — that is, tax policies designed to
create markets where they had not existed before — despite the fact
that they were in theory committed to Smith's argument that markets
develop spontaneously of their own accord.

This was particularly true in the colonial world. To return to Mad-
agascar for a moment: I have already mentioned that one of the first
things that the French general Gallieni, conqueror of Madagascar, did
when the conquest of the island was complete in 1901 was to impose
a head tax. Not only was this tax quite high, it was also only payable
in newly issued Malagasy francs. In other words, Gallieni did indeed
print money and then demand that everyone in the country give some
of that money back to him.

Most striking of all, though, was language he used to describe this
tax. It was referred to as the "impot moralisateur," the "educational"
or "moralizing tax." In other words, it was designed — to adopt the

PRIMORDIAL DEBTS

language of the day — to teach the natives the value of work. Since
the "educational tax" came due shortly after harvest time, the easiest
way for farmers to pay it was to sell a portion of their rice crop to the
Chinese or Indian merchants who soon installed themselves in small
towns across the country. However, harvest was when the market
price of rice was, for obvious reasons, at its lowest; if one sold too
much of one's crop, that meant one would not have enough left to
feed one's family for the entire year, and thus be forced to buy one's
own rice back, on credit, from those same merchants later in the year
when prices were much higher. As a result, farmers quickly fell hope-
lessly into debt (the merchants doubling as loan sharks). The easiest
ways to pay back the debt was either to find some kind of cash crop
to sell — to start growing coffee, or pineapples — or else to send one's
children off to work for wages in the city, or on one of the plantations
that French colonists were establishing across the island. The whole
project might seem no more than a cynical scheme to squeeze cheap
labor out of the peasantry, and it was that, but it was also something
more. The colonial government was were also quite explicit (at least
in their own internal policy documents), about the need to make sure
that peasants had at least some money of their own left over, and to
ensure that they became accustomed to the minor luxuries — parasols,
lipstick, cookies — available at the Chinese shops. It was crucial that
they develop new tastes, habits, and expectations; that they lay the
foundations of a consumer demand that would endure long after the
conquerors had left, and keep Madagascar forever tied to France.

Most people are not stupid, and most Malagasy understood ex-
actly what their conquerors were trying to do to them. Some were
determined to resist. More than sixty years after the invasion, a French
anthropologist, Gerard Althabe, was able to observe villages on the
east coast of the island whose inhabitants would dutifully show up at
the coffee plantations to earn the money for their poll tax, and then,
having paid it, studiously ignore the wares for sale at the local shops
and instead turn over any remaining money to lineage elders, who
would then use it to buy cattle for sacrifice to their ancestors.19 Many
were quite open in saying that they saw themselves as resisting a trap.

Still, such defiance rarely lasts forever. Markets did gradually take
shape, even in those parts of the island where none had previously
existed. With them came the inevitable network of little shops. And by
the time I got there, in 1990, a generation after the poll tax had finally
been abolished by a revolutionary government, the logic of the market
had become so intuitively accepted that even spirit mediums were recit-
ing passages that might as well have come from Adam Smith.

DEBT

Such examples could be multiplied endlessly. Something like this
occurred in just about every part of the world conquered by European
arms where markets were not already in place. Rather than discovering
barter, they ended up using the very techniques that mainstream eco-
nomics rejected to bring something like the market into being.

In Search of a Myth

Anthropologists have been complaining about the Myth of Barter for
almost a century. Occasionally, economists point out with slight ex-
asperation that there's a fairly simple reason why they're still telling
the same story despite all the evidence against it: anthropologists have
never come up with a better one.20 This is an understandable objection,
but there's a simple answer to it. The reasons why anthropologists
haven't been able to come up with a simple, compelling story for the
origins of money is because there's no reason to believe there could be
one. Money was no more ever "invented" than music or mathematics
or jewelry. What we call "money" isn't a "thing" at all, it's a way of
comparing things mathematically, as proportions: of saying one of X is
equivalent to six of Y. As such it is probably as old as human thought.
The moment we try to get any more specific, we discover that there
are any number of different habits and practices that have converged
in the stuff we now call "money," and this is precisely the reason why
economists, historians, and the rest have found it so difficult to come
up with a single definition.

Credit Theorists have long been hobbled by the lack of an equally
compelling narrative. This is not to say that all sides in the currency
debates that ranged between 1850 and 1950 were not in the habit of
deploying mythological weaponry. This was true particularly, perhaps,
in the United States. In 1894, the Greenbackers, who pushed for de-
taching the dollar from gold entirely to allow the government to spend
freely on job-creation campaigns, invented the idea of the March on
Washington — an idea that was to have endless resonance in U.S. his-
tory. L. Frank Baum's book The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, which ap-
peared in 1900, is widely recognized to be a parable for the Populist
campaign of William Jennings Bryan, who twice ran for president on
the Free Silver platform — vowing to replace the gold standard with a
bimetallic system that would allow the free creation of silver money
alongside gold.21 As with the Greenbackers, one of the main constitu-
encies for the movement was debtors: particularly, Midwestern farm

PRIMORDIAL DEBTS

families such as Dorothy's, who had been facing a massive wave of
foreclosures during the severe recession of the 1890s. According to the
Populist reading, the Wicked Witches of the East and West represent
the East and West Coast bankers (promoters of and benefactors from
the tight money supply), the Scarecrow represented the farmers (who
didn't have the brains to avoid the debt trap), the Tin Woodsman was
the industrial proletariat (who didn't have the heart to act in solidarity
with the farmers), the Cowardly Lion represented the political class
(who didn't have the courage to intervene). The yellow brick road,
silver slippers, emerald city, and hapless Wizard presumably speak for
themselves.22 "Oz" is of course the standard abbreviation for "ounce."23
As an attempt to create a new myth, Baum's story was remarkably ef-
fective. As political propaganda, less so. William Jennings Bryan failed
in three attempts to win the presidency, the silver standard was never
adopted, and few nowadays even remember what The Wonderful Wiz-
ard of Oz was originally supposed to be about.24

For state-money theorists in particular, this has been a problem.
Stories about rulers using taxes to create markets in conquered territo-
ries, or to pay for soldiers or other state functions, are not particularly
inspiring. German ideas of money as the embodiment of national will
did not travel very well.

Every time there was a major economic meltdown, however, con-
ventional laissez-faire economics took another hit. The Bryan cam-
paigns were born as a reaction to the Panic of 1893. By the time of the
Great Depression of the 1930s, the very notion that the market could
regulate itself, so long as the government ensured that money was safe-
ly pegged to precious metals, was completely discredited. From roughly
1933 to 1979, every major capitalist government reversed course and
adopted some version of Keynesianism. Keynesian orthodoxy started
from the assumption that capitalist markets would not really work
unless capitalist governments were willing effectively to play nanny:
most famously, by engaging in massive deficit "pump-priming" during
downturns. While in the '80s, Margaret Thatcher in Britain and Ron-
ald Reagan in the United States made a great show of rejecting all of
this, it's unclear how much they really did.25 And in any case, they were
operating in the wake of an even greater blow to previous monetary
orthodoxy: Richard Nixon's decision in 1971 to unpeg the dollar from
precious metals entirely, eliminate the international gold standard, and
introduce the system of floating currency regimes that has dominated
the world economy ever since. This meant in effect that all national
currencies were henceforth, as neoclassical economists like to put it,
"fiat money" backed only by the public trust.

DEBT

Now, John Maynard Keynes himself was much more open to what
he liked to call the "alternative tradition" of credit and state theories
than any economist of that stature (and Keynes is still arguably the sin-
gle most important economic thinker of the twentieth century) before
or since. At certain points he immersed himself in it: he spent several
years in the 1920s studying Mesopotamian cuneiform banking records
to try to ascertain the origins of money — his "Babylonian madness,"
as he would later call it.26 His conclusion, which he set forth at the
very beginning of his Treatise on Money, his most famous work, was
more or less the only conclusion one could come to if one started not
from first principles, but from a careful examination of the historical
record: that the lunatic fringe was, essentially, right. Whatever its earli-
est origins, for the last four thousand years, money has been effectively
a creature of the state. Individuals, he observed, make contracts with
one another. They take out debts, and they promise payment.

The State, therefore, comes in first of all as the authority of law
which enforces the payment of the thing which corresponds to
the name or description in the contract. But it comes doubly
when, in addition, it claims the right to determine and declare
what thing corresponds to the name, and to vary its declara-
tion from time to time — when, that is to say it claims the right
to re-edit the dictionary. This right is claimed by all modern
States and has been so claimed for some four thousand years
at least. It is when this stage in the evolution of Money has
been reached that Knapp's Chartalism — the doctrine that mon-
ey is peculiarly a creation of the State — is fully realized . . .
To-day all civilized money is, beyond the possibility of dispute,
chartalist.27

This does not mean that the state necessarily creates money. Mon-
ey is credit, it can be brought into being by private contractual agree-
ments (loans, for instance). The state merely enforces the agreement
and dictates the legal terms. Hence Keynes' next dramatic assertion:
that banks create money, and that there is no intrinsic limit to their
ability to do so: since however much they lend, the borrower will
have no choice but to put the money back into some bank again, and
thus, from the perspective of the banking system as a whole, the total
number of debits and credits will always cancel out.28 The implications
were radical, but Keynes himself was not. In the end, he was always
careful to frame the problem in a way that could be reintegrated into
the mainstream economics of his day.

PRIMORDIAL DEBTS

Neither was Keynes much of a mythmaker. Insofar as the alterna-
tive tradition has come up with an answer to the Myth of Barter, it
was not from Keynes' own efforts (Keynes ultimately decided that the
origins of money were not particularly important) but in the work of
some contemporary neo-Keynesians, who were not afraid to follow
some of his more radical suggestions as far as they would go.

The real weak link in state-credit theories of money was always the
element of taxes. It is one thing to explain why early states demanded
taxes (in order to create markets.) It's another to ask "by what right?"
Assuming that early rulers were not simply thugs, and that taxes were
not simply extortion — and no Credit Theorist, to my knowledge, took
such a cynical view even of early government — one must ask how they
justified this sort of thing.

Nowadays, we all think we know the answer to this question. We
pay our taxes so that the government can provide us with services. This
starts with security services — military protection being, often, about
the only service some early states were really able to provide. By now,
of course, the government provides all sorts of things. All of this is
said to go back to some sort of original "social contract" that everyone
somehow agreed on, though no one really knows exactly when or by
whom, or why we should be bound by the decisions of distant ances-
tors on this one matter when we don't feel particularly bound by the
decisions of our distant ancestors on anything else.29 All of this makes
sense if you assume that markets come before governments, but the
whole argument totters quickly once you realize that they don't.

There is an alternative explanation, one created to be in keeping
with the state-credit theory approach. It's referred to as "primordial
debt theory" and it has been developed largely in France, by a team of
researchers — not only economists but anthropologists, historians, and
classicists — originally assembled around the figures of Michel Aglietta
and Andre Orleans,'0 and more recently, Bruno Theret, and it has since
been taken up by neo-Keynesians in the United States and the United
Kingdom as well.31

It's a position that has emerged quite recently, and at first, largely
amidst debates about the nature of the euro. The creation of a common
European currency sparked not only all sorts of intellectual debates
(does a common currency necessarily imply the creation of a common
European state? Or of a common European economy or society? Are
these ultimately the same thing?) but dramatic political ones as well.
The creation of the euro zone was spearheaded above all by Germany,
whose central banks still see their main goal as combating inflation.
What's more, tight money policies and the need to balance budgets

DEBT

having been used as the main weapon to chip away welfare-state poli-
cies in Europe, it has necessarily become the stake of political struggles
between bankers and pensioners, creditors and debtors, just as heated
as those of 1890s America.

The core argument is that any attempt to separate monetary policy
from social policy is ultimately wrong. Primordial-debt theorists insist
that these have always been the same thing. Governments use taxes to
create money, and they are able to do so because they have become the
guardians of the debt that all citizens have to one another. This debt is
the essence of society itself. It exists long before money and markets,
and money and markets themselves are simply ways of chopping pieces
of it up.

At first, the argument goes, this sense of debt was expressed not
through the state, but through religion. To make the argument, Aglietta
and Orleans fixed on certain works of early Sanskrit religious literature:
the hymns, prayers, and poetry collected in the Vedas and the Brahma-
nas, priestly commentaries composed over the centuries that followed,
texts that are now considered the foundations of Hindu thought. It's
not as odd a choice as it might seem. These texts constitute the earliest
known historical reflections on the nature of debt.

Actually, even the very earliest Vedic poems, composed sometime
between 1500 and 1200 bc, evince a constant concern with debt — which
is treated as synonymous with guilt and sin.32 There are numerous
prayers pleading with the gods to liberate the worshipper from the
shackles or bonds of debt. Sometimes these seem to refer to debt in the
literal sense — Rig Veda 10.34, f°r instance, has a long description of
the sad plight of gamblers who "wander homeless, in constant fear, in
debt, and seeking money." Elsewhere it's clearly metaphorical.

In these hymns, Yama, the god of death, figures prominently. To
be in debt was to have a weight placed on you by Death. To be under
any sort of unfulfilled obligation, any unkept promise, to gods or to
men, was to live in the shadow of Death. Often, even in the very early
texts, debt seems to stand in for a broader sense of inner suffering,
from which one begs the gods — particularly Agni, who represents the
sacrificial fire — for release. It was only with the Brahmanas that com-
mentators started trying to weave all this together into a more com-
prehensive philosophy. The conclusion: that human existence is itself
a form of debt.

A man, being born, is a debt; by his own self he is born to
Death, and only when he sacrifices does he redeem himself
from Death.33

PRIMORDIAL DEBTS

Sacrifice (and these early commentators were themselves sacrificial
priests) is thus called "tribute paid to Death." Or such was the manner
of speaking. In reality, as the priests knew better than anyone, sacrifice
was directed to all the gods, not just Death — Death was just the inter-
mediary. Framing things this way, though, did immediately raise the
one problem that always comes up, whenever anyone conceives human
life through such an idiom. If our lives are on loan, who would actually
wish to repay such a debt? To live in debt is to be guilty, incomplete.
But completion can only mean annihilation. In this way, the "tribute"
of sacrifice could be seen as a kind of interest payment, with the life
of the animal substituting temporarily for what's really owed, which is
ourselves — a mere postponement of the inevitable.34

Different commentators proposed different ways out of the dilem-
ma. Some ambitious Brahmins began telling their clients that sacrificial
ritual, if done correctly, promised a way to break out of the human
condition entirely and achieve eternity (since, in the face of eternity, all
debts become meaningless.)35 Another way was to broaden the notion
of debt, so that all social responsibilities become debts of one sort or
another. Thus two famous passages in the Brahmanas insist that we
are born as a debt not just to the gods, to be repaid in sacrifice, but
also to the Sages who created the Vedic learning to begin with, which
we must repay through study; to our ancestors ("the Fathers"), who
we must repay by having children; and finally, "to men" — apparently
meaning humanity as a whole, to be repaid by offering hospitality to
strangers.36 Anyone, then, who lives a proper life is constantly paying
back existential debts of one sort or another; but at the same time, as
the notion of debt slides back into a simple sense of social obligation,
it becomes something far less terrifying than the sense that one's very
existence is a loan taken against Death.37 Not least because social ob-
ligations always cut both ways. Especially since, once one has oneself
fathered children, one is just as much a debtor as a creditor.

What primordial-debt theorists have done is to propose that the
ideas encoded in these Vedic texts are not peculiar to a certain intel-
lectual tradition of early Iron Age ritual specialists in the Ganges val-
ley, but that they are essential to the very nature and history of human
thought. Consider for example this statement, from an essay by French
economist Bruno Theret with the uninspiring title "The Socio-Cultural
Dimensions of the Currency: Implications for the Transition to the
Euro," published in the Journal of Consumer Policy in 1999:

At the origin of money we have a "relation of representa-
tion" of death as an invisible world, before and beyond life — a

DEBT

representation that is the product of the symbolic function
proper to the human species and which envisages birth as an
original debt incurred by all men, a debt owing to the cosmic
powers from which humanity emerged.

Payment of this debt, which can however never be settled
on earth — because its full reimbursement is out of reach — takes
the form of sacrifices which, by replenishing the credit of the
living, make it possible to prolong life and even in certain cases
to achieve eternity by joining the Gods. But this initial belief-
claim is also associated with the emergence of sovereign powers
whose legitimacy resides in their ability to represent the entire
original cosmos. And it is these powers that invented money as
a means of settling debts — a means whose abstraction makes
it possible to resolve the sacrificial paradox by which put-
ting to death becomes the permanent means of protecting life.
Through this institution, belief is in turn transferred to a cur-
rency stamped with the effigy of the sovereign — a money put in
circulation but whose return is organized by this other institu-
tion which is the tax/settlement of the life debt. So money also
takes on the function of a means of payment.38

If nothing else, this provides a neat illustration of how different
are standards of debate in Europe from those current in the Anglo-
American world. One can't imagine an American economist of any
stripe writing something like this. Still, the author is actually making a
rather clever synthesis here. Human nature does not drive us to "truck
and barter." Rather, it ensures that we are always creating symbols —
such as money itself. This is how we come to see ourselves in a cosmos
surrounded by invisible forces; as in debt to the universe.

The ingenious move of course is to fold this back into the state
theory of money — since by "sovereign powers" Theret actually means
"the state." The first kings were sacred kings who were either gods in
their own right or stood as privileged mediators between human beings
and the ultimate forces that governed the cosmos. This sets us on a
road to the gradual realization that our debt to the gods was always,
really, a debt to the society that made us what we are.

The "primordial debt," writes British sociologist Geoffrey Ingham,
"is that owed by the living to the continuity and durability of the soci-
ety that secures their individual existence."39 In this sense it is not just
criminals who owe a "debt to society" — we are all, in a certain sense,
guilty, even criminals.

PRIMORDIAL DEBTS

For instance, Ingham notes that, while there is no actual proof that
money emerged in this way, "there is considerable indirect etymologi-
cal evidence":

In all Indo-European languages, words for "debt" are synony-
mous with those for "sin" or "guilt", illustrating the links be-
tween religion, payment and the mediation of the sacred and
profane realms by "money." For example, there is a connection
between money (German Geld), indemnity or sacrifice (Old
English Geild), tax (Gothic Gild) and, of course, guilt.40

Or, to take another curious connection: Why were cattle so often
used as money? The German historian Bernard Laum long ago pointed
out that in Homer, when people measure the value of a ship or suit of
armor, they always measure it in oxen — even though when they actu-
ally exchange things, they never pay for anything in oxen. It is hard to
escape the conclusion that this was because an ox was what one of-
fered the gods in sacrifice. Hence they represented absolute value. From
Sumer to Classical Greece, silver and gold were dedicated as offerings
in temples. Everywhere, money seems to have emerged from the thing
most appropriate for giving to the gods.41

If the king has simply taken over guardianship of that primordial
debt we all owe to society for having created us, this provides a very
neat explanation for why the government feels it has the right to make
us pay taxes. Taxes are just a measure of our debt to the society that
made us. But this doesn't really explain how this kind of absolute life-
debt can be converted into money, which is by definition a means of
measuring and comparing the value of different things. This is just as
much a problem for credit theorists as for neoclassical economists, even
if the problem for them is somewhat differently framed. If you start
from the barter theory of money, you have to resolve the problem of
how and why you would come to select one commodity to measure just
how much you want each of the other ones. If you start from a credit
theory, you are left with the problem I described in the first chapter:
how to turn a moral obligation into a specific sum of money, how the
mere sense of owing someone else a favor can eventually turn into a
system of accounting in which one is able to calculate exactly how
many sheep or fish or chunks of silver it would take to repay the debt.
Or in this case, how do we go from that absolute debt we owe to God
to the very specific debts we owe our cousins, or the bartender?

The answer provided by primordial-debt theorists is, again, inge-
nious. If taxes represent our absolute debt to the society that created

DEBT

us, then the first step toward creating real money comes when we start
calculating much more specific debts to society, systems of fines, fees,
and penalties, or even debts we owe to specific individuals who we
have wronged in some way, and thus to whom we stand in a relation
of "sin" or "guilt."

This is actually much less implausible than it might sound. One of
the puzzling things about all the theories about the origins of money
that we've been looking at so far is that they almost completely ig-
nore the evidence of anthropology. Anthropologists do have a great
deal of knowledge of how economies within stateless societies actually
worked — how they still work in places where states and markets have
been unable to completely break up existing ways of doing things.
There are innumerable studies of, say, the use of cattle as money in
eastern or southern Africa, of shell money in the Americas (wampum
being the most famous example) or Papua New Guinea, bead money,
feather money, the use of iron rings, cowries, spondylus shells, brass
rods, or woodpecker scalps.42 The reason that this literature tends to be
ignored by economists is simple: "primitive currencies" of this sort is
only rarely used to buy and sell things, and even when they are, never
primarily to buy and sell everyday items such as chickens or eggs or
shoes or potatoes. Rather than being employed to acquire things, they
are mainly used to rearrange relations between people. Above all, to
arrange marriages and to settle disputes, particularly those arising from
murders or personal injury.

There is every reason to believe that our own money started the
same way — even the English word "to pay" is originally derived from
a word for "to pacify, appease" — as in, to give someone something
precious, for instance, to express just how badly you feel about having
just killed his brother in a drunken brawl, and how much you would
really like to avoid this becoming the basis for an ongoing blood-feud.4'

Debt theorists are especially concerned with this latter possibil-
ity. This is partly because they tend to skip past the anthropological
literature and look at early law codes — taking inspiration here, from
the groundbreaking work of one of the twentieth century's greatest nu-
mismatists, Philip Grierson, who in the '70s, first suggested that money
might first have emerged from early legal practice. Grierson was an
expert in the European Dark Ages, and he became fascinated by what
have come to be known as the "Barbarian Law Codes," established by
many Germanic peoples after the destruction of the Roman Empire in
the 600s and 700s — Goths, Frisians, Franks, and so on — soon followed
by similar codes published everywhere from Russia to Ireland. Cer-
tainly they are fascinating documents. On the one hand, they make it

PRIMORDIAL DEBTS

abundantly clear just how wrong are conventional accounts of Europe
around this time "reverting to barter." Almost all of the Germanic law
codes use Roman money to make assessments; penalties for theft, for
instance, are almost always followed by demands that the thief not
only return the stolen property but pay any outstanding rent (or in the
event of stolen money, interest) owing for the amount of time it has
been in his possession. On the other hand, these were soon followed by
law codes by people living in territories that had never been under Ro-
man rule — in Ireland, Wales, Nordic countries, Russia — and these are
if anything even more revealing. They could be remarkably creative,
both in what could be used as a means of payment and on the precise
breakdown of injuries and insults that required compensation:

Compensation in the Welsh laws is reckoned primarily in cattle
and in the Irish ones in cattle or bondmaids (cutnal), with
considerable use of precious metals in both. In the Germanic
codes it is mainly in precious metal ... In the Russian codes it
was silver and furs, graduated from marten down to squirrel.
Their detail is remarkable, not only in the personal injuries
envisioned — specific compensations for the loss of an arm, a
hand, a forefinger, a nail, for a blow on the head so that the
brain is visible or bone projects — but in the coverage some of
them gave to the possessions of the individual household. Title
II of the Salic Law deals with the theft of pigs, Title III with
cattle, Title IV with sheep, Title V with goats, Title VI with
dogs, each time with an elaborate breakdown differentiating
between animals of different age and sex.44

This does make a great deal of psychological sense. I've already
remarked how difficult it is to imagine how a system of precise
equivalences — one young healthy milk cow is equivalent to exactly
thirty-six chickens — could arise from most forms of gift exchange. If
Henry gives Joshua a pig and feels he has received an inadequate
counter-gift, he might mock Joshua as a cheapskate, but he would have
little occasion to come up with a mathematical formula for precisely
how cheap he feels Joshua has been. On the other hand, if Joshua's
pig just destroyed Henry's garden, and especially, if that led to a fight
in which Henry lost a toe, and Henry's family is now hauling Joshua
up in front of the village assembly — this is precisely the context where
people are most likely to become petty and legalistic and express out-
rage if they feel they have received one groat less than was their right-
ful due. That means exact mathematical specificity: for instance, the

DEBT

capacity to measure the exact value of a two-year-old pregnant sow.
What's more, the levying of penalties must have constantly required
the calculation of equivalences. Say the fine is in marten pelts but the
culprit's clan doesn't have any martens. How many squirrel skins will
do? Or pieces of silver jewelry? Such problems must have come up all
the time and led to at least a rough-and-ready set of rules of thumb
over what sorts of valuable were equivalent to others. This would
help explain why, for instance, medieval Welsh law codes can contain
detailed breakdowns not only of the value of different ages and condi-
tions of milk cow, but of the monetary value of every object likely to
be found in an ordinary homestead, down to the cost of each piece of
timber — despite the fact that there seems no reason to believe that most
such items could even be purchased on the open market at the time.45

There is something very compelling in all this. For one thing, the prem-
ise makes a great deal of intuitive sense. After all, we do owe every-
thing we are to others. This is simply true. The language we speak and
even think in, our habits and opinions, the kind of food we like to eat,
the knowledge that makes our lights switch on and toilets flush, even
the style in which we carry out our gestures of defiance and rebellion
against social conventions — all of this, we learned from other people,
most of them long dead. If we were to imagine what we owe them as
a debt, it could only be infinite. The question is: Does it really make
sense to think of this as a debt? After all, a debt is by definition some-
thing that we could at least imagine paying back. It is strange enough
to wish to be square with one's parents — it rather implies that one does
not wish to think of them as parents any more. Would we really want
to be square with all humanity? What would that even mean? And is
this desire really a fundamental feature of all human thought?

Another way to put this would be: Are primordial-debt theorists
describing a myth, have they discovered a profound truth of the hu-
man condition that has always existed in all societies, and is it simply
spelled out particularly clearly in certain ancient texts from India — or
are they inventing a myth of their own?

Clearly it must be the latter. They are inventing a myth.

The choice of the Vedic material is significant. The fact is, we
know almost nothing about the people who composed these texts and
little about the society that created them.46 We don't even know if

PRIMORDIAL DEBTS

interest-bearing loans existed in Vedic India — which obviously has a
bearing on whether priests really saw sacrifice as the payment of inter-
est on a loan we owe to Death.47 As a result, the material can serve as
a kind of empty canvas, or a canvas covered with hieroglyphics in an
unknown language, on which we can project almost anything we want
to. If we look at other ancient civilizations in which we do know some-
thing about the larger context, we find that no such notion of sacrifice
as payment is in evidence.48 If we look through the work of ancient
theologians, we find that most were familiar with the idea that sacrifice
was a way by which human beings could enter into commercial rela-
tions with the gods, but that they felt it was patently ridiculous: If the
gods already have everything they want, what exactly do humans have
to bargain with?49 We've seen in the last chapter how difficult it is to
give gifts to kings. With gods (let alone God) the problem is magnified
infinitely. Exchange implies equality. In dealing with cosmic forces, this
was simply assumed to be impossible from the start.

The notion that debts to gods were appropriated by the state,
and thus became the bases for taxation systems, can't really stand
up either. The problem here is that in the ancient world, free citizens
didn't usually pay taxes. Generally speaking, tribute was levied only on
conquered populations. This was already true in ancient Mesopotamia,
where the inhabitants of independent cities did not usually have to pay
direct taxes at all. Similarly, as Moses Finley put it, "Classical Greeks
looked upon direct taxes as tyrannical and avoided them whenever pos-
sible.50 Athenian citizens did not pay direct taxes of any sort; though
the city did sometimes distribute money to its citizens, a kind of reverse
taxation — sometimes directly, as with the proceeds of the Laurium sil-
ver mines, and sometimes indirectly, as through generous fees for jury
duty or attending the assembly. Subject cities, however, did have to pay
tribute. Even within the Persian Empire, Persians did not have to pay
tribute to the Great King, but the inhabitants of conquered provinces
did.51 The same was true in Rome, where for a very long time, Roman
citizens not only paid no taxes but had a right to a share of the tribute
levied on others, in the form of the dole — the "bread" part of the fa-
mous "bread and circuses."52

In other words, Benjamin Franklin was wrong when he said that
in this world nothing is certain except death and taxes. This obviously
makes the idea that the debt to one is just a variation on the other
much harder to maintain.

None of this, however, deals a mortal blow to the state theory
of money. Even those states that did not demand taxes did levy fees,
penalties, tariffs, and fines of one sort or another. But it is very hard

DEBT

to reconcile with any theory that claims states were first conceived as
guardians of some sort of cosmic, primordial debt.

It's curious that primordial-debt theorists never have much to say
about Sumer or Babylonia, despite the fact that Mesopotamia is where
the practice of loaning money at interest was first invented, probably
two thousand years before the Vedas were composed — and that it was
also the home of the world's first states. But if we look into Mesopo-
tamian history, it becomes a little less surprising. Again, what we find
there is in many ways the exact opposite of what such theorists would
have predicted.

The reader will recall here that Mesopotamian city-states were
dominated by vast Temples: gigantic, complex industrial institutions
often staffed by thousands — including everyone from shepherds and
barge-pullers to spinners and weavers to dancing girls and clerical ad-
ministrators. By at least 2700 BC, ambitious rulers had begun to imitate
them by creating palace complexes organized on similar terms — with
the exception that where the Temples centered on the sacred chambers
of a god or goddess, represented by a sacred image who was fed and
clothed and entertained by priestly servants as if he or she were a liv-
ing person. Palaces centered on the chambers of an actual live king.
Sumerian rulers rarely went so far as to declare themselves gods, but
they often came very close. However, when they did interfere in the
lives of their subjects in their capacity as cosmic rulers, they did not
do it by imposing public debts, but rather by canceling private ones.53

We don't know precisely when and how interest-bearing loans
originated, since they appear to predate writing. Most likely, Temple
administrators invented the idea as a way of financing the caravan
trade. This trade was crucial because while the river valley of ancient
Mesopotamia was extraordinarily fertile and produced huge surpluses
of grain and other foodstuffs, and supported enormous numbers of
livestock, which in turn supported a vast wool and leather industry, it
was almost completely lacking in anything else. Stone, wood, metal,
even the silver used as money, all had to be imported. From quite early
times, then, Temple administrators developed the habit of advancing
goods to local merchants — some of them private, others themselves
Temple functionaries — who would then go off and sell it overseas.
Interest was just a way for the Temples to take their share of the re-
sulting profits.54 However, once established, the principle seems to have
quickly spread. Before long, we find not only commercial loans, but
also consumer loans — usury in the classical sense of the term. By C2400
BC it already appears to have been common practice on the part of lo-
cal officials, or wealthy merchants, to advance loans to peasants who

PRIMORDIAL DEBTS

were in financial trouble on collateral and begin to appropriate their
possessions if they were unable to pay. It usually started with grain,
sheep, goats, and furniture, then moved on to fields and houses, or, al-
ternately or ultimately, family members. Servants, if any, went quickly,
followed by children, wives, and in some extreme occasions, even the
borrower himself. These would be reduced to debt-peons: not quite
slaves, but very close to that, forced into perpetual service in the lend-
er's household — or, sometimes, in the Temples or Palaces themselves.
In theory, of course, any of them could be redeemed whenever the bor-
rower repaid the money, but for obvious reasons, the more a peasant's
resources were stripped away from him, the harder that became.

The effects were such that they often threatened to rip society
apart. If for any reason there was a bad harvest, large proportions of
the peasantry would fall into debt peonage; families would be bro-
ken up. Before long, lands lay abandoned as indebted farmers fled
their homes for fear of repossession and joined semi-nomadic bands
on the desert fringes of urban civilization. Faced with the potential
for complete social breakdown, Sumerian and later Babylonian kings
periodically announced general amnesties: "clean slates," as economic
historian Michael Hudson refers to them. Such decrees would typically
declare all outstanding consumer debt null and void (commercial debts
were not affected), return all land to its original owners, and allow all
debt-peons to return to their families. Before long, it became more or
less a regular habit for kings to make such a declaration on first as-
suming power, and many were forced to repeat it periodically over the
course of their reigns.

In Sumeria, these were called "declarations of freedom" — and it
is significant that the Sumerian word amargi, the first recorded word
for "freedom" in any known human language, literally means "return
to mother" — since this is what freed debt-peons were finally allowed
to do.55

Michael Hudson argues that Mesopotamian kings were only in
a position to do this because of their cosmic pretensions: in taking
power, they saw themselves as literally recreating human society, and
so were in a position to wipe the slate clean of all previous moral ob-
ligations. Still, this is about as far from what primordial-debt theorists
had in mind as one could possibly imagine.56

Probably the biggest problem in this whole body of literature is the ini-
tial assumption: that we begin with an infinite debt to something called

DEBT

"society." It's this debt to society that we project onto the gods. It's this
same debt that then gets taken up by kings and national governments.

What makes the concept of society so deceptive is that we assume
the world is organized into a series of compact, modular units called
"societies," and that all people know which one they're in. Histori-
cally, this is very rarely the case. Imagine I am a Christian Armenian
merchant living under the reign of Genghis Khan. What is "society"
for me? Is it the city where I grew up, the society of international
merchants (with its own elaborate codes of conduct) within which I
conduct my daily affairs, other speakers of Armenian, Christendom (or
maybe just Orthodox Christendom), or the inhabitants of the Mongol
empire itself, which stretched from the Mediterranean to Korea? His-
torically, kingdoms and empires have rarely been the most important
reference points in peoples' lives. Kingdoms rise and fall; they also
strengthen and weaken; governments may make their presence known
in people's lives quite sporadically, and many people in history were
never entirely clear whose government they were actually in. Even until
quite recently, many of the world's inhabitants were never even quite
sure what country they were supposed to be in, or why it should mat-
ter. My mother, who was born a Jew in Poland, once told me a joke
from her childhood:

There was a small town located along the frontier between
Russia and Poland; no one was ever quite sure to which it
belonged. One day an official treaty was signed and not long
after, surveyors arrived to draw a border. Some villagers ap-
proached them where they had set up their equipment on a
nearby hill.

"So where are we, Russia or Poland?"

"According to our calculations, your village now begins ex-
actly thirty-seven meters into Poland."

The villagers immediately began dancing for joy.

"Why?" the surveyors asked. "What difference does it
make?"

"Don't you know what this means?" they replied. "It means
we'll never have to endure another one of those terrible Rus-
sian winters!"

However, if we are born with an infinite debt to all those people
who made our existence possible, but there is no natural unit called
"society" — then who or what exactly do we really owe it to? Everyone?
Everything? Some people or things more than others? And how do we

PRIMORDIAL DEBTS

pay a debt to something so diffuse? Or, perhaps more to the point, who
exactly can claim the authority to tell us how we can repay it, and on
what grounds?

If we frame the problem that way, the authors of the Brahmanas
are offering a quite sophisticated reflection on a moral question that no
one has really ever been able to answer any better before or since. As I
say, we can't know much about the conditions under which those texts
were composed, but such evidence as we do have suggests that the
crucial documents date from sometime between 500 and 400 bc — that
is, roughly the time of Socrates — which in India appears to have been
just around the time that a commercial economy, and institutions like
coined money and interest-bearing loans were beginning to become
features of everyday life. The intellectual classes of the time were,
much as they were in Greece and China, grappling with the implica-
tions. In their case, this meant asking: What does it mean to imagine
our responsibilities as debts? To whom do we owe our existence?

It's significant that their answer did not make any mention either
of "society" or states (though certainly kings and governments certainly
existed in early India). Instead, they fixed on debts to gods, to sages, to
fathers, and to "men." It wouldn't be at all difficult to translate their
formulation into more contemporary language. We could put it this
way. We owe our existence above all:

• To the universe, cosmic forces, as we would put it now, to Nature.
The ground of our existence. To be repaid through ritual: ritual be-
ing an act of respect and recognition to all that beside which we are
small.57

• To those who have created the knowledge and cultural accom-
plishments that we value most; that give our existence its form, its
meaning, but also its shape. Here we would include not only the
philosophers and scientists who created our intellectual tradition
but everyone from William Shakespeare to that long-since-forgotten
woman, somewhere in the Middle East, who created leavened bread.
We repay them by becoming learned ourselves and contributing to
human knowledge and human culture.

• To our parents, and their parents — our ancestors. We repay them by
becoming ancestors.

• To humanity as a whole. We repay them by generosity to strang-
ers, by maintaining that basic communistic ground of sociality that
makes human relations, and hence life, possible.

DEBT

Set out this way, though, the argument begins to undermine its
very premise. These are nothing like commercial debts. After all, one
might repay one's parents by having children, but one is not gener-
ally thought to have repaid one's creditors if one lends the cash to
someone else.58

Myself, I wonder: Couldn't that really be the point? Perhaps what
the authors of the Brahmanas were really demonstrating was that, in
the final analysis, our relation with the cosmos is ultimately nothing like
a commercial transaction, nor could it be. That is because commercial
transactions imply both equality and separation. These examples are
all about overcoming separation: you are free from your debt to your
ancestors when you become an ancestor; you are free from your debt
to the sages when you become a sage, you are free from your debt to
humanity when you act with humanity. All the more so if one is speak-
ing of the universe. If you cannot bargain with the gods because they
already have everything, then you certainly cannot bargain with the
universe, because the universe is everything — and that everything neces-
sarily includes yourself. One could in fact interpret this list as a subtle
way of saying that the only way of "freeing oneself" from the debt was
not literally repaying debts, but rather showing that these debts do
not exist because one is not in fact separate to begin with, and hence
that the very notion of canceling the debt, and achieving a separate,
autonomous existence, was ridiculous from the start. Or even that the
very presumption of positing oneself as separate from humanity or the
cosmos, so much so that one can enter into one-to-one dealings with
it, is itself the crime that can be answered only by death. Our guilt is
not due to the fact that we cannot repay our debt to the universe. Our
guilt is our presumption in thinking of ourselves as being in any sense
an equivalent to Everything Else that Exists or Has Ever Existed, so as
to be able to conceive of such a debt in the first place.19

Or let us look at the other side of the equation. Even if it is pos-
sible to imagine ourselves as standing in a position of absolute debt to
the cosmos, or to humanity, the next question becomes: Who exactly
has a right to speak for the cosmos, or humanity, to tell us how that
debt must be repaid? If there's anything more preposterous than claim-
ing to stand apart from the entire universe so as to enter into negotia-
tions with it, it is claiming to speak for the other side.

If one were looking for the ethos for an individualistic society such
as our own, one way to do it might well be to say: we all owe an infinite
debt to humanity, society, nature, or the cosmos (however one prefers
to frame it), but no one else could possibly tell us how we are to pay it.
This at least would be intellectually consistent. If so, it would actually

PRIMORDIAL DEBTS

be possible to see almost all systems of established authority — religion,
morality, politics, economics, and the criminal-justice system — as so
many different fraudulent ways to presume to calculate what cannot
be calculated, to claim the authority to tell us how some aspect of that
unlimited debt ought to be repaid. Human freedom would then be our
ability to decide for ourselves how we want to do so.

No one, to my knowledge, has ever taken this approach. In-
stead, theories of existential debt always end up becoming wa-ys of
justifying — or laying claim to — structures of authority. The case of
the Hindu intellectual tradition is telling here. The debt to humanity
appears only in a few early texts, and is quickly forgotten. Almost all
later Hindu commentators ignore it and instead put their emphasis on
a man's debt to his father.60

Primordial-debt theorists have other fish to fry. They are not really
interested in the cosmos, but actually, in "society."

Let me return again to that word, "society." The reason that it
seems like such a simple, self-evident concept is because we mostly
use it as a synonym for "nation." After all, when Americans speak of
paying their debt to society, they are not thinking of their responsibili-
ties to people who live in Sweden. It's only the modern state, with its
elaborate border controls and social policies, that enables us to imagine
"society" in this way, as a single bounded entity. This is why project-
ing that notion backwards into Vedic or Medieval times will always be
deceptive, even though we don't really have another word.

It seems to me that this is exactly what the primordial-debt theo-
rists are doing: projecting such a notion backwards.

Really, the whole complex of ideas they are talking about — the
notion that there is this thing called society, that we have a debt to it,
that governments can speak for it, that it can be imagined as a sort of
secular god — all of these ideas emerged together around the time of the
French Revolution, or in its immediate wake. In other words, it was
born alongside the idea of the modern nation-state.

We can already see them coming together clearly in the work of
Auguste Comte, in early nineteenth-century France. Comte, a phi-
losopher and political pamphleteer now most famous for having first
coined the term "sociology," went so far, by the end of his life, as
actually proposing a Religion of Society, which he called Positivism,

DEBT

broadly modeled on Medieval Catholicism, replete with vestments
where all the buttons were on the back (so they couldn't be put on
without the help of others). In his last work, which he called a "Positiv-
ist Catechism," he also laid down the first explicit theory of social debt.
At one point someone asks an imaginary Priest of Positivism what he
thinks of the notion of human rights. The priest scoffs at the very idea.
This is nonsense, he says, an error born of individualism. Positivism
understands only duties. After all:

We are born under a load of obligations of every kind, to our
predecessors, to our successors, to our contemporaries. After
our birth these obligations increase or accumulate before the
point where we are capable of rendering anyone any service.
On what human foundation, then, could one seat the idea of
"rights"?61

While Comte doesn't use the word "debt," the sense is clear enough.
We have already accumulated endless debts before we get to the age at
which we can even think of paying them. By that time, there's no way
to calculate to whom we even owe them. The only way to redeem our-
selves is to dedicate ourselves to the service of Humanity as a whole.

In his lifetime, Comte was considered something of a crackpot, but
his ideas proved influential. His notion of unlimited obligations to so-
ciety ultimately crystallized in the notion of the "social debt," a notion
taken up among social reformers and, eventually, socialist politicians in
many parts of Europe and abroad.62 "We are all born as debtors to so-
ciety": in France the notion of a social debt soon became something of
a catchphrase, a slogan, and eventually a cliche.63 The state, according
to this view, was merely the administrator of an existential debt that
all of us have to the society that created us, embodied not least in the
fact that we all continue to be completely dependent on one another for
our existence, even if we are not completely aware of how.

These are also the intellectual and political circles that shaped the
thought of Emile Durkheim, the founder of the discipline of sociology
that we know today, who in a way did Comte one better by arguing
that all gods in all religions are always already projections of society —
so an explicit religion of society would not even be necessary. All
religions, for Durkheim, are simply ways of recognizing our mutual
dependence on one another, a dependence that affects us in a million
ways that we are never entirely aware of. "God" and "society" are
ultimately the same.

PRIMORDIAL DEBTS

The problem is that for several hundred years now, it has simply
been assumed that the guardian of that debt we owe for all of this, the
legitimate representatives of that amorphous social totality that has al-
lowed us to become individuals, must necessarily be the state. Almost
all socialist or socialistic regimes end up appealing to some version of
this argument. To take one notorious example, this was how the Soviet
Union used to justify forbidding their citizens from emigrating to other
countries. The argument was always: The USSR created these people,
the USSR raised and educated them, made them who they are. What
right do they have to take the product of our investment and transfer
it to another country, as if they didn't owe us anything? Neither is this
rhetoric restricted to socialist regimes. Nationalists appeal to exactly
the same kind of arguments — especially in times of war. And all mod-
ern governments are nationalist to some degree.

One might even say that what we really have, in the idea of pri-
mordial debt, is the ultimate nationalist myth. Once we owed our lives
to the gods that created us, paid interest in the form of animal sacrifice,
and ultimately paid back the principal with our lives. Now we owe it
to the Nation that formed us, pay interest in the form of taxes, and
when it comes time to defend the nation against its enemies, to offer
to pay it with our lives.

This is a great trap of the twentieth century: on one side is the logic
of the market, where we like to imagine we all start out as individuals
who don't owe each other anything. On the other is the logic of the
state, where we all begin with a debt we can never truly pay. We are
constantly told that they are opposites, and that between them they
contain the only real human possibilities. But it's a false dichotomy.
States created markets. Markets require states. Neither could continue
without the other, at least, in anything like the forms we would rec-
ognize today.

Chapter Four

CRUELTY AND REDEMPTION

We will buy the poor for silver, the
needy for a pair of sandals.

— Amos 2:6

THE READER MAY have noticed that there is an unresolved debate
between those who see money as a commodity and those who see it
as an IOU. Which one is it? By now, the answer should be obvious:
it's both. Keith Hart, probably the best-known current anthropological
authority on the subject, pointed this out many years ago. There are,
he famously observed, two sides to any coin:

Look at a coin from your pocket. On one side is "heads" — the
symbol of the political authority which minted the coin; on the
other side is "tails" — the precise specification of the amount
the coin is worth as payment in exchange. One side reminds us
that states underwrite currencies and the money is originally a
relation between persons in society, a token perhaps. The other
reveals the coin as a thing, capable of entering into definite
relations with other things.1

Clearly, money was not invented to overcome the inconveniences
of barter between neighbors — since neighbors would have no reason to
engage in barter in the first place. Still, a system of pure credit money
would have serious inconveniences as well. Credit money is based on
trust, and in competitive markets, trust itself becomes a scarce com-
modity. This is particularly true of dealings between strangers. Within
the Roman empire, a silver coin stamped with the image of Tiberius
might have circulated at a value considerably higher than the value of
the silver it contained. Ancient coins invariably circulated at a value
higher than their metal content.2 This was largely because Tiberius's
government was willing to accept them at face value. However, the

DEBT

Persian government probably wasn't, and the Mauryan and Chinese
governments certainly weren't. Very large numbers of Roman gold and
silver coins did end up in India and even China; this is presumably the
main reason that they were made of gold and silver to begin with.

What's true for a vast empire like Rome or China is obviously
all the more true for a Sumerian or Greek city-state, let alone anyone
operating within the kind of broken checkerboard of kingdoms, towns,
and tiny principalities that prevailed in most of Medieval Europe or
India. As I've pointed out, often what was inside and what was out-
side were not especially clear. Within a community — a town, a city,
a guild or religious society — pretty much anything could function as
money, provided everyone knew there was someone willing to accept
it to cancel out a debt. To offer one particularly striking example, in
certain cities in nineteenth-century Siam, small change consisted en-
tirely of porcelain Chinese gaming counters — basically, the equivalent
of poker chips — issued by local casinos. If one of these casinos went
out of business or lost its license, its owners would have to send a crier
through the streets banging a gong and announcing that anyone hold-
ing such chits had three days to redeem them.3 For major transactions,
of course, currency that was also acceptable outside the community
(usually silver or gold again) was ordinarily employed.

In a similar way, English shops, for many centuries, would issue
their own wood or lead or leather token money. The practice was often
technically illegal, but it continued until relatively recent times. Here is
an example from the seventeenth century, by a certain Henry, who had
a store at Stony Stratford, Buckinghamshire:

This is clearly a case of the same principle: Henry would provide
small change in the form of IOUs redeemable at his own store. As such,
they might circulate broadly, at least among anyone who did regular
business at that shop. But they were unlikely to travel very far from
Stony Stratford — most tokens, in fact, never circulated more than a few
blocks in any direction. For larger transactions, everyone, including
Henry, expected money in a form that would be acceptable anywhere,
including in Italy or France.4

CRUELTY AND REDEMPTION

Throughout most of history, even where we do find elaborate mar-
kets, we also find a complex jumble of different sorts of currency.
Some of these may have originally emerged from barter between for-
eigners: the cacao money of Mesoamerica or salt money of Ethiopia
are frequently cited examples.5 Others arose from credit systems, or
from arguments over what sort of goods should be acceptable to pay
taxes or other debts. Such questions were often matters of endless
contestation. One could often learn a lot about the balance of political
forces in a given time and place by what sorts of things were accept-
able as currency. For instance: in much the same way that colonial
Virginia planters managed to pass a law obliging shopkeepers to ac-
cept their tobacco as currency, medieval Pomeranian peasants appear
to have at certain points convinced their rulers to make taxes, fees,
and customs duties, which were registered in Roman currency, actually
payable in wine, cheese, peppers, chickens, eggs, and even herring —
much to the annoyance of traveling merchants, who therefore had
to either carry such things around in order to pay the tolls or buy
them locally at prices that would have been more advantageous to
their suppliers for that very reason.6 This was in an area with a free
peasantry, rather than serfs. They were in a relatively strong political
position. In other times and places, the interests of lords and merchants
prevailed instead.

Thus money is almost always something hovering between a com-
modity and a debt-token. This is probably why coins — pieces of silver
or gold that are already valuable commodities in themselves, but that,
being stamped with the emblem of a local political authority, became
even more valuable — still sit in our heads as the quintessential form
of money. They most perfectly straddle the divide that defines what
money is in the first place. What's more, the relation between the two
was a matter of constant political contestation.

In other words, the battle between state and market, between gov-
ernments and merchants is not inherent to the human condition.

I I I I I

Our two origin stories — the myth of barter and the myth of primordial
debt — may appear to be about as far apart as they could be, but in
their own way, they are also two sides of the same coin. One assumes
the other. It's only once we can imagine human life as a series of com-
mercial transactions that we're capable of seeing our relation to the
universe in terms of debt.

DEBT

To illustrate, let me call a perhaps surprising witness, Friedrich
Nietzsche, a man able to see with uncommon clarity what happens
when you try to imagine the world in commercial terms.

Nietzsche's On the Genealogy of Morals appeared in 1887. In it, he
begins with an argument that might well have been taken directly from
Adam Smith — but he takes it a step further than Smith ever dared to,
insisting that not just barter, but buying and selling itself, precede any
other form of human relationship. The feeling of personal obligation,
he observes,

has its origin in the oldest and most primitive personal rela-
tionship there is, in the relationship between seller and buyer,
creditor and debtor. Here for the first time one person moved
up against another person, here an individual measured himself
against another individual. We have found no civilization still
at such a low level that something of this relationship is not
already perceptible. To set prices, to measure values, to think
up equivalencies, to exchange things — that preoccupied man's
very first thinking to such a degree that in a certain sense
it's what thinking itself is. Here the oldest form of astuteness
was bred; here, too, we can assume are the first beginnings of
man's pride, his feeling of pre-eminence in relation to other
animals. Perhaps our word "man" (manas) continues to ex-
press directly something of this feeling of the self: the human
being describes himself as a being which assesses values, which
values and measures, as the "inherently calculating animal."
Selling and buying, together with their psychological attributes,
are even older than the beginnings of any form of social orga-
nizations and groupings; out of the most rudimentary form of
personal legal rights the budding feeling of exchange, contract,
guilt, law, duty, and compensation was instead first transferred
to the crudest and earliest social structures (in their relation-
ships with similar social structures), along with the habit of
comparing power with power, of measuring, of calculating.7

Smith, too, we will remember, saw the origins of language — and
hence of human thought — as lying in our propensity to "exchange one
thing for another," in which he also saw the origins of the market.8 The
urge to trade, to compare values, is the very thing that makes us intel-
ligent beings, and different from other animals. Society comes later —
which means our ideas about responsibilities to other people first take
shape in strictly commercial terms.

CRUELTY AND REDEMPTION

Unlike with Smith, however, it never occurred to Nietzsche that
you could have a world where all such transactions immediately cancel
out. Any system of commercial accounting, he assumed, will produce
creditors and debtors. In fact, he believed that it was from this very
fact that human morality emerged. Note, he says, how the German
word schuld means both "debt" and "guilt." At first, to be in debt
was simply to be guilty, and creditors delighted in punishing debtors
unable to repay their loans by inflicting "all sorts of humiliation and
torture on the body of the debtor, for instance, cutting as much flesh
off as seemed appropriate for the debt."9 In fact, Nietzsche went so far
as to insist that those original barbarian law codes that tabulated so
much for a ruined eye, so much for a severed finger, were not originally
meant to fix rates of monetary compensation for the loss of eyes and
fingers, but to establish how much of the debtor's body creditors were
allowed to take! Needless to say, he doesn't provide a scintilla of evi-
dence for this (none exists).10 But to ask for evidence would be to miss
the point. We are dealing here not with a real historical argument but
with a purely imaginative exercise.

When humans did begin to form communities, Nietzsche contin-
ues, they necessarily began to imagine their relationship to the com-
munity in these terms. The tribe provides them with peace and security.
They are therefore in its debt. Obeying its laws is a way of paying it
back ("paying your debt to society" again). But this debt, he says, is
also paid — here too — in sacrifice:

Within the original tribal cooperatives — we're talking about
primeval times — the living generation always acknowledged a
legal obligation to the previous generations, and especially to
the earliest one which had founded the tribe [ . . . ] Here the
reigning conviction is that the tribe only exists at all only be-
cause of the sacrifices and achievements of its ancestors — and
that people have to pay them back with sacrifices and achieve-
ments. In this people recognize a debt which keeps steadily
growing because these ancestors in their continuing existence
as powerful spirits do not stop giving the tribe new advantages
and lending them their power. Do they do this for free? But
there is no "for free" for those raw and "spiritually destitute"
ages. What can people give back to them? Sacrifices (at first as
nourishment understood very crudely), festivals, chapels, signs
of honor, above all, obedience — for all customs, as work of
one's ancestors, are also their statutes and commands. Do peo-
ple ever give them enough? This suspicion remains and grows.11

DEBT

In other words, for Nietzsche, starting from Adam Smith's as-
sumptions about human nature means we must necessarily end up with
something very much along the lines of primordial-debt theory. On the
one hand, it is because of our feeling of debt to the ancestors that we
obey the ancestral laws: this is why we feel that the community has the
right to react "like an angry creditor" and punish us for our transgres-
sions if we break them. In a larger sense, we develop a creeping feeling
that we could never really pay back the ancestors, that no sacrifice (not
even the sacrifice of our first-born) will ever truly redeem us. We are
terrified of the ancestors, and the stronger and more powerful a com-
munity becomes, the more powerful they seem to be, until finally, "the
ancestor is necessarily transfigured into a god." As communities grow
into kingdoms and kingdoms into universal empires, the gods them-
selves come to seem more universal, they take on grander, more cosmic
pretentions, ruling the heavens, casting thunderbolts — culminating in
the Christian god, who, as the maximal deity, necessarily "brought
about the maximum feeling of indebtedness on earth." Even our ances-
tor Adam is no longer figured as a creditor, but as a transgressor, and
therefore a debtor, who passes on to us his burden of Original Sin:

Finally, with the impossibility of discharging the debt, people
also come up with the notion that it is impossible to remove
the penance, the idea that it cannot be paid off ("eternal pun-
ishment") . . . until all of a sudden we confront the paradoxi-
cal and horrifying expedient with which a martyred humanity
found temporary relief, that stroke of genius of Christianity:
God sacrificing himself for the guilt of human beings, God pay-
ing himself back with himself, God as the only one who can re-
deem man from what for human beings has become impossible
to redeem — the creditor sacrificing himself for the debtor, out
of love (can people believe that?), out of love for his debtor!12

It all makes perfect sense if you start from Nietzsche's initial prem-
ise. The problem is that the premise is insane.

There is also every reason to believe that Nietzsche knew the prem-
ise was insane; in fact, that this was the entire point. What Nietzsche
is doing here is starting out from the standard, common-sense assump-
tions about the nature of human beings prevalent in his day (and to a
large extent, still prevalent) — that we are rational calculating machines,
that commercial self-interest comes before society, that "society" itself
is just a way of putting a kind of temporary lid on the resulting con-
flict. That is, he is starting out from ordinary bourgeois assumptions

CRUELTY AND REDEMPTION

and driving them to a place where they can only shock a bourgeois
audience.

It's a worthy game and no one has ever played it better; but it's
a game played entirely within the boundaries of bourgeois thought. It
has nothing to say to anything that lies beyond that. The best response
to anyone who wants to take seriously Nietzsche's fantasies about sav-
age hunters chopping pieces off each other's bodies for failure to remit
are the words of an actual hunter-gatherer — an Inuit from Greenland
made famous in the Danish writer Peter Freuchen's Book of the Es-
kimo. Freuchen tells how one day, after coming home hungry from an
unsuccessful walrus-hunting expedition, he found one of the successful
hunters dropping off several hundred pounds of meat. He thanked him
profusely. The man objected indignantly:

"Up in our country we are human!" said the hunter. "And
since we are human we help each other. We don't like to hear
anybody say thanks for that. What I get today you may get
tomorrow. Up here we say that by gifts one makes slaves and
by whips one makes dogs."'3

The last line is something of an anthropological classic, and simi-
lar statements about the refusal to calculate credits and debits can
be found through the anthropological literature on egalitarian hunt-
ing societies. Rather than seeing himself as human because he could
make economic calculations, the hunter insisted that being truly hu-
man meant refusing to make such calculations, refusing to measure or
remember who had given what to whom, for the precise reason that
doing so would inevitably create a world where we began "comparing
power with power, measuring, calculating" and reducing each other to
slaves or dogs through debt.

It's not that he, like untold millions of similar egalitarian spirits
throughout history, was unaware that humans have a propensity to
calculate. If he wasn't aware of it, he could not have said what he
did. Of course we have a propensity to calculate. We have all sorts of
propensities. In any real-life situation, we have propensities that drive
us in several different contradictory directions simultaneously. No one
is more real than any other. The real question is which we take as
the foundation of our humanity, and therefore, make the basis of our
civilization. If Nietzsche's analysis of debt is helpful to us, then, it is
because it reveals that when we start from the assumption that human
thought is essentially a matter of commercial calculation, that buying
and selling are the basis of human society — then, yes, once we begin

DEBT

to think about our relationship with the cosmos, we will necessarily
conceive of it in terms of debt.

I do think Nietzsche helps us in another way as well: to understand the
concept of redemption. Niezsche's account of "primeval times" might
be absurd, but his description of Christianity — of how a sense of debt
is transformed into an abiding sense of guilt, and guilt to self-loathing,
and self-loathing to self-torture — all of this does ring very true.

Why, for instance, do we refer to Christ as the "redeemer"? The
primary meaning of "redemption" is to buy something back, or to
recover something that had been given up in security for a loan; to ac-
quire something by paying off a debt. It is rather striking to think that
the very core of the Christian message, salvation itself, the sacrifice of
God's own son to rescue humanity from eternal damnation, should be
framed in the language of a financial transaction.

Nietzsche might have been starting from the same assumptions as
Adam Smith, but clearly the early Christians weren't. The roots of this
thinking lie deeper than Smith's with his nation of shopkeepers. The
authors of the Brahmanas were not alone in borrowing the language
of the marketplace as a way of thinking about the human condition.
Indeed, to one degree or another, all the major world religions do this.

The reason is that all of them — from Zoroastrianism to Islam —
arose amidst intense arguments about the role of money and the mar-
ket in human life, and particularly about what these institutions meant
for fundamental questions of what human beings owed to one another.
The question of debt, and arguments about debt, ran through every
aspect of the political life of the time. These arguments were set amidst
revolts, petitions, reformist movements. Some such movements gained
allies in the temples and palaces. Others were brutally suppressed.
Most of the terms, slogans, and specific issues being debated, though,
have been lost to history. We just don't know what a political debate
in a Syrian tavern in 750 bc was likely to be about. As a result, we have
spent thousands of years contemplating sacred texts full of political
allusions that would have been instantly recognizable to any reader at
the time when they were written, but whose meaning we now can only
guess at.14

One of the unusual things about the Bible is that it preserves some
bits of this larger context. To return to the notion of redemption:
the Hebrew words padah and goal, both translated as "redemption,"
could be used for buying back anything one had sold to someone else,

CRUELTY AND REDEMPTION

particularly the recovery of ancestral land, or to recovering some ob-
ject held by creditors in way of a pledge.15 The example foremost in
the minds of prophets and theologians seems to have been the last: the
redemption of pledges, and especially, of family members held as debt-
pawns. It would seem that the economy of the Hebrew kingdoms, by
the time of the prophets, was already beginning to develop the same
kind of debt crises that had long been common in Mesopotamia: espe-
cially in years of bad harvests, the poor became indebted to rich neigh-
bors or to wealthy moneylenders in the towns, they would begin to
lose title to their fields and to become tenants on what had been their
own land, and their sons and daughters would be removed to serve as
servants in their creditors' households, or even sold abroad as slaves.16
The earlier prophets contain allusions to such crises, but the book of
Nehemiah, written in Persian times, is the most explicit:17

Some also there were that said, "We have mortgaged our lands,
vineyards, and houses, that we might buy corn, because of the
dearth."

There were also those that said, "We have borrowed money
for the king's tribute, and that upon our lands and vineyards.

"Yet now our flesh is as the flesh of our brethren, our chil-
dren as their children: and, lo, we bring into bondage our sons
and our daughters to be servants, and some of our daughters
are brought unto bondage already: neither is it in our power
to redeem them; for other men have our lands and vineyards."

And I was very angry when I heard their cry and these
words.

Then I consulted with myself, and I rebuked the nobles, and
the rulers, and said unto them, "Ye exact usury, every one of
his brother." And I set a great assembly against them.18

Nehemiah was a Jew born in Babylon, a former cup-bearer to the
Persian emperor. In 444 bc, he managed to talk the Great King into
appointing him governor of his native Judaea. He also received per-
mission to rebuild the Temple in Jerusalem that had been destroyed
by Nebuchadnezzar more than two centuries earlier. In the course of
rebuilding, sacred texts were recovered and restored; in a sense, this
was the moment of the creation of what we now consider Judaism.

The problem was that Nehemiah quickly found himself confronted
with a social crisis. All around him, impoverished peasants were un-
able to pay their taxes; creditors were carrying off the children of the
poor. His first response was to issue a classic Babylonian-style "clean

DEBT

slate" edict — having himself been born in Babylon, he was clearly fa-
miliar with the general principle. All non-commercial debts were to be
forgiven. Maximum interest rates were set. At the same time, though,
Nehemiah managed to locate, revise, and reissue much older Jewish
laws, now preserved in Exodus, Deuteronomy, and Leviticus, which
in certain ways went even further, by institutionalizing the principle.19
The most famous of these is the Law of Jubilee: a law that stipulated
that all debts would be automatically cancelled "in the Sabbath year"
(that is, after seven years had passed), and that all who languished in
bondage owing to such debts would be released.20

"Freedom," in the Bible, as in Mesopotamia, came to refer above
all to release from the effects of debt. Over time, the history of the Jew-
ish people itself came to be interpreted in this light: the liberation from
bondage in Egypt was God's first, paradigmatic act of redemption; the
historical tribulations of the Jews (defeat, conquest, exile) were seen
as misfortunes that would eventually lead to a final redemption with
the coming of the Messiah — though this could only be accomplished,
prophets such as Jeremiah warned them, after the Jewish people truly
repented of their sins (carrying each other off into bondage, whoring
after false gods, the violation of commandments).21 In this light, the
adoption of the term by Christians is hardly surprising. Redemption
was a release from one's burden of sin and guilt, and the end of history
would be that moment when all slates are wiped clean and all debts
finally lifted when a great blast from angelic trumpets will announce
the final Jubilee.

If so, "redemption" is no longer about buying something back.
It's really more a matter of destroying the entire system of account-
ing. In many Middle Eastern cities, this was literally true: one of the
common acts during debt cancelation was the ceremonial destruction
of the tablets on which financial records had been kept, an act to be
repeated, much less officially, in just about every major peasant revolt
in history.22

This leads to another problem: What is possible in the meantime,
before that final redemption comes? In one of his more disturbing
parables, the Parable of the Unforgiving Servant, Jesus seemed to be
explicitly playing with the problem:

Therefore, the kingdom of heaven is like a king who wanted to
settle accounts with his servants. As he began the settlement, a
man who owed him ten thousand talents was brought to him.
Since he was not able to pay, the master ordered that he and

CRUELTY AND REDEMPTION

his wife and his children and all that he had be sold to repay
the debt.

The servant fell on his knees before him. "Be patient with
me," he begged, "and I will pay back everything." The servant's
master took pity on him, canceled the debt, and let him go.

But when that servant went out, he found one of his fellow
servants who owed him a hundred denarii. He grabbed him
and began to choke him. "Pay back what you owe me!" he
demanded.

His fellow servant fell to his knees and begged him, "Be
patient with me, and I will pay you back."

But he refused. Instead, he went off and had the man thrown
into prison until he could pay the debt. When the other ser-
vants saw what had happened, they were greatly distressed and
went and told their master everything that had happened.

Then the master called the servant in. "You wicked ser-
vant," he said, "I canceled all that debt of yours because you
begged me to. Shouldn't you have had mercy on your fellow
servant just as I had on you?" In anger his master turned him
over to the jailers to be tortured, until he should pay back all
he owed.23

This is quite an extraordinary text. On one level it's a joke; in oth-
ers, it could hardly be more serious.

We begin with the king wishing to "settle accounts" with his ser-
vants. The premise is absurd. Kings, like gods, can't really enter into
relations of exchange with their subjects, since no parity is possible.
And this is a king who clearly is God. Certainly there can be no final
settling of accounts.

So at best we are dealing with an act of whimsy on the king's part.
The absurdity of the premise is hammered home by the sum the first
man brought before him is said to owe. In ancient Judaea, to say some-
one owes a creditor "ten thousand talents" would be like now saying
someone owes "a hundred billion dollars." The number is a joke, too;
it simply stands in for "a sum no human being could ever, conceivably,
repay."24

Faced with infinite, existential debt, the servant can only tell obvi-
ous lies: "a hundred billion? Sure, I'm good for it! Just give me a little
more time." Then, suddenly, apparently just as arbitrarily, the Lord
forgives him.

Yet, it turns out, the amnesty has a condition he is not aware of. It
is incumbent on his being willing to act in an analogous way to other

DEBT

humans — in this particular case, another servant who owes him (to
translate again into contemporary terms), maybe a thousand bucks.
Failing the test, the human is cast into hell for all eternity, or "until he
should pay back all he owed," which in this case comes down to the
same thing.

The parable has long been a challenge to theologians. It's normally
interpreted as a comment on the endless bounty of God's grace and
how little He demands of us in comparison — and thus, by implication,
as a way of suggesting that torturing us in hell for all eternity is not
as unreasonable as it might seem. Certainly, the unforgiving servant is
a genuinely odious character. Still, what is even more striking to me
is the tacit suggestion that forgiveness, in this world, is ultimately im-
possible. Christians practically say as much every time they recite the
Lord's Prayer, and ask God to "forgive us our debts, as we also forgive
our debtors."25 It repeats the story of the parable almost exactly, and
the implications are similarly dire. After all, most Christians reciting
the prayer are aware that they do not generally forgive their debtors.
Why then should God forgive them their sins?26

What's more, there is the lingering suggestion that we really
couldn't live up to those standards, even if we tried. One of the things
that makes the Jesus of the New Testament such a tantalizing character
is that it's never clear what he's telling us. Everything can be read two
ways. When he calls on his followers to forgive all debts, refuse to cast
the first stone, turn the other cheek, love their enemies, to hand over
their possessions to the poor — is he really expecting them to do this?
Or are such demands just a way of throwing in their faces that, since
we are clearly not prepared to act this way, we are all sinners whose
salvation can only come in another world — a position that can be (and
has been) used to justify almost anything? This is a vision of human life
as inherently corrupt, but it also frames even spiritual affairs in com-
mercial terms: with calculations of sin, penance, and absolution, the
Devil and St. Peter with their rival ledger books, usually accompanied
by the creeping feeling that it's all a charade because the very fact that
we are reduced to playing such a game of tabulating sins reveals us to
be fundamentally unworthy of forgiveness.

World religions, as we shall see, are full of this kind of ambiva-
lence. On the one hand they are outcries against the market; on the
other, they tend to frame their objections in commercial terms — as if
to argue that turning human life into a series of transactions is not a
very good deal. What I think even these few examples reveal, though,
is how much is being papered over in the conventional accounts of the
origins and history of money. There is something almost touchingly

CRUELTY AND REDEMPTION

naive in the stories about neighbors swapping potatoes for an extra
pair of shoes. When the ancients thought about money, friendly swaps
were hardly the first thing that came to mind.

True, some might have thought about their tab at the local ale-
house, or, if they were a merchant or administrator, of storehouses,
account books, exotic imported delights. For most, though, what was
likely to come to mind was the selling of slaves and ransoming of pris-
oners, corrupt tax-farmers and the depredations of conquering armies,
mortgages and interest, theft and extortion, revenge and punishment,
and, above all, the tension between the need for money to create fami-
lies, to acquire a bride so as to have children, and use of that same
money to destroy families — to create debts that lead to the same wife
and children being taken away. "Some of our daughters are brought
unto bondage already: neither is it in our power to redeem them." One
can only imagine what those words meant, emotionally, to a father in
a patriarchal society in which a man's ability to protect the honor of
his family was everything. Yet this is what money meant to the ma-
jority of people for most of human history: the terrifying prospect of
one's sons and daughters being carried off to the homes of repulsive
strangers to clean their pots and provide the occasional sexual services,
to be subject to every conceivable form of violence and abuse, pos-
sibly for years, conceivably forever, as their parents waited, helpless,
avoiding eye contact with their neighbors, who knew exactly what was
happening to those they were supposed to have been able to protect.27
Clearly this was the worst thing that could happen to anyone — which
is why, in the parable, it could be treated as interchangeable with be-
ing "turned over to the jailors to be tortured" for life. And that's just
from the perspective of the father. One can only imagine how it might
have felt to be the daughter. Yet, over the course of human history,
untold millions of daughters have known (and in fact many still know)
exactly what it's like.

One might object that this was just assumed to be in the nature
of things: like the imposition of tribute on conquered populations, it
might have been resented, but it wasn't considered a moral issue, a
matter of right and wrong. Some things just happen. This has been the
most common attitude of peasants to such phenomena throughout hu-
man history. What's striking about the historical record is that in the
case of debt crises, this was not how many reacted. Many actually did
become indignant. So many, in fact, that most of our contemporary
language of social justice, our way of speaking of human bondage and
emancipation, continues to echo ancient arguments about debt.

DEBT

It's particularly striking because so many other things do seem to
have been accepted as simply in the nature of things. One does not see
a similar outcry against caste systems, for example, or for that matter,
the institution of slavery.28 Surely slaves and untouchables often experi-
enced at least equal horrors. No doubt many protested their condition.
Why was it that the debtors' protests seemed to carry such greater
moral weight? Why were debtors so much more effective in winning
the ear of priests, prophets, officials, and social reformers? Why was it
that officials like Nehemiah were willing to give such sympathetic con-
sideration to their complaints, to inveigh, to summon great assemblies?

Some have suggested practical reasons: debt crises destroyed the
free peasantry, and it was free peasants who were drafted into ancient
armies to fight in wars.29 No doubt this was a factor; clearly it wasn't
the only one. There is no reason to believe that Nehemiah, for instance,
in his anger at the usurers, was primarily concerned with his ability
to levy troops for the Persian king. It is something more fundamental.

What makes debt different is that it is premised on an assumption
of equality.

To be a slave, or lower-caste, is to be intrinsically inferior. We are
dealing with relations of unadulterated hierarchy. In the case of debt,
we are dealing with two individuals who begin as equal parties to a
contract. Legally, at least as far as the contract is concerned, they are
the same.

We can add that, in the ancient world, when people who actually
were more or less social equals loaned money to one another, the terms
appear to have normally been quite generous. Often no interest was
charged, or if it was, it was very low. "And don't charge me interest,"
wrote one wealthy Canaanite to another, in a tablet dated around
1200 bc, "after all, we are both gentlemen."30 Between close kin, many
"loans" were probably, then as now, just gifts that no one seriously
expected to recover. Loans between rich and poor were something
else again.

The problem was that, unlike status distinctions like caste or slav-
ery, the line between rich and poor was never precisely drawn. One can
imagine the reaction of a farmer who went up to the house of a wealthy
cousin, on the assumption that "humans help each other," and ended
up, a year or two later, watching his vineyard seized and his sons and
daughters led away. Such behavior could be justified, in legal terms, by
insisting that the loan was not a form of mutual aid but a commercial
relationship — a contract is a contract. (It also required a certain reli-
able access to superior force.) But it could only have felt like a terrible
betrayal. What's more, framing it as a breach of contract meant stating

CRUELTY AND REDEMPTION

that this was, in fact, a moral issue: these two parties ought to be
equals, but one had failed to honor the bargain. Psychologically, this
can only have made the indignity of the debtor's condition all the more
painful, since it made it possible to say that it was his own turpitude
that sealed his daughter's fate. But that just made the motive all the
more compelling to throw back the moral aspersions: "Our flesh is as
the flesh of our brethren, our children as their children." We are all the
same people. We have a responsibility to take account of one another's
needs and interests. How then could my brother do this to me?

In the Old Testament case, debtors were able to marshal a particu-
larly powerful moral argument — as the authors of Deuteronomy con-
stantly reminded their readers, were not the Jews all slaves in Egypt,
and had they not all been redeemed by God? Was it right, when they
had all been given this promised land to share, for some to take that
land away from others? Was it right for a population of liberated slaves
to go about enslaving one aother's children?31 But analogous arguments
were being made in similar situations almost everywhere in the ancient
world: in Athens, in Rome, and for that matter, in China — where leg-
end had it that coinage itself was first invented by an ancient emperor
to redeem the children of families who had been forced to sell them
after a series of devastating floods.

Through most of history, when overt political conflict between
classes did appear, it took the form of pleas for debt cancellation — the
freeing of those in bondage, and usually, a more just reallocation of
the land. What we see, in the Bible and other religious traditions, are
traces of the moral arguments by which such claims were justified, usu-
ally subject to all sorts of imaginative twists and turns, but inevitably,
to some degree, incorporating the language of the marketplace itself.

Chapter Five

A BRIEF TREATISE ON THE MORAL
GROUNDS OF ECONOMIC RELATIONS

TO TELL THE HISTORY of debt, then, is also necessarily to recon-
struct how the language of the marketplace has come to pervade every
aspect of human life — even to provide the terminology for the moral
and religious voices ostensibly raised against it. We have already seen
how both Vedic and Christian teachings thus end up making the same
curious move: first describing all morality as debt, but then, in their
very manner of doing so, demonstrating that morality cannot really be
reduced to debt, that it must be grounded in something else.1

But what? Religious traditions prefer vast, cosmological answers:
the alternative to the morality of debt lies in recognition of continu-
ity with the universe, or life in the expectation of the imminent an-
nihilation of the universe, or absolute subordination to the deity, or
withdrawal into another world. My own aims are more modest, so I
will take the opposite approach. If we really want to understand the
moral grounds of economic life, and by extension, human life, it seems
to me that we must start instead with the very small things: the every-
day details of social existence, the way we treat our friends, enemies,
and children — often with gestures so tiny (passing the salt, bumming
a cigarette) that we ordinarily never stop to think about them at all.
Anthropology has shown us just how different and numerous are the
ways in which humans have been known to organize themselves. But
it also reveals some remarkable commonalities — fundamental moral
principles that appear to exist everywhere, and that will always tend to
be invoked, wherever people transfer objects back and forth or argue
about what other people owe them.

One of the reasons that human life is so complicated, in turn, is
because many of these principles contradict one another. As we will
see, they are constantly pulling us in radically different directions. The
moral logic of exchange, and hence of debt, is only one; in any given
situation, there are likely to be completely different principles that

DEBT

could be brought to bear. In this sense, the moral confusion discussed
in the first chapter is hardly new; in a sense, moral thought is founded
on this very tension.

To really understand what debt is, then, it will be necessary to un-
derstand how it's different from other sorts of obligation that human
beings might have to one another — which, in turn, means mapping
out what those other sorts of obligation actually are. Doing so, how-
ever, poses peculiar challenges. Contemporary social theory — economic
anthropology included — offers surprisingly little help in this regard.
There's an enormous anthropological literature on gifts, for instance,
starting with the French anthropologist Marcel Mauss's essay of 1925,
even on "gift economies" that operate on completely different prin-
ciples than market economies — but in the end, almost all this literature
concentrates on the exchange of gifts, assuming that whenever one
gives a gift, this act incurs a debt, and the recipient must eventually
reciprocate in kind. Much as in the case of the great religions, the
logic of the marketplace has insinuated itself even into the thinking of
those who are most explicitly opposed to it. As a result, I am going
to have to start over here, to create a new theory, pretty much from
scratch.

Part of the problem is the extraordinary place that economics cur-
rently holds in the social sciences. In many ways it is treated as a kind
of master discipline. Just about anyone who runs anything important
in America is expected to have some training in economic theory, or at
least to be familiar with its basic tenets. As a result, those tenets have
come to be treated as received wisdom, as basically beyond question
(one knows one is in the presence of received wisdom when, if one
challenges it, the first reaction is to treat one as simply ignorant —
"You obviously have never heard of the Laffer Curve"; "Clearly you
need a course in Economics 101" — the theory is seen as so obviously
true that no one who understands it could possibly disagree.) What's
more, those branches of social theory that make the greatest claims to
"scientific status" — "rational choice theory," for instance — start from
the same assumptions about human psychology that economists do:
that human beings are best viewed as self-interested actors calculating
how to get the best terms possible out of any situation, the most profit
or pleasure or happiness for the least sacrifice or investment — curious,
considering experimental psychologists have demonstrated over and
over again that these assumptions simply aren't true.2

THE MORAL GROUNDS OF ECONOMIC RELATIONS

From early on, there were those who wished to create a theo-
ry of social interaction grounded in a more generous view of human
nature — insisting that moral life comes down to something more than
mutual advantage, that it is motivated above all by a sense of justice.
The key term here became "reciprocity," the sense of equity, balance,
fairness, and symmetry, embodied in our image of justice as a set of
scales. Economic transactions were just one variant of the principle
of balanced exchange — and one that had a notorious tendency to go
awry. But if one examines matters closely, one finds that all human
relations are based on some variation on reciprocity.

In the 1950s, '60s and '70s, there was something of a craze for this
sort of thing, in the guise of what was then called "exchange theory,"
developed in infinite variations, from George Homans' "Social Ex-
change Theory" in the United States to Claude Levi-Strauss's Structur-
alism in France. Levi-Strauss, who became a kind of intellectual god in
anthropology, made the extraordinary argument that human life could
be imagined as consisting of three spheres: language (which consisted
of the exchange of words), kinship (which consisted of the exchange of
women), and economics (which consisted of the exchange of things).
All three, he insisted, were governed by the same fundamental law of
reciprocity.3

Levi-Strauss's star is fallen now, and such extreme statements seem,
in retrospect, a little bit ridiculous. Still, it's not as if anyone has pro-
posed a bold new theory to replace all this. Instead, the assumptions
have simply retreated into the background. Almost everyone continues
to assume that in its fundamental nature, social life is based on the
principle of reciprocity, and therefore that all human interaction can
best be understood as a kind of exchange. If so, then debt really is at
the root of all morality, because debt is what happens when some bal-
ance has not yet been restored.

But can all justice really be reduced to reciprocity? It's easy enough
to come up with forms of reciprocity that don't seem particularly just.
"Do unto others as you would wish others to do unto you" might seem
like an excellent foundation for a system of ethics, but for most of us,
"an eye for an eye" does not evoke justice so much as vindictive brutal-
ity.4 "One good turn deserves another" is a pleasant sentiment, but "I'll
scratch your back, you scratch mine" is shorthand for political corrup-
tion. Conversely, there are relationships that seem clearly moral but
appear to have nothing to do with reciprocity. The relation between
mother and child is an oft-cited example. Most of us learn our sense of
justice and morality first from our parents. Yet it is extremely difficult
to see the relatiqn between parent and child as particularly reciprocal.

DEBT

Would we really be willing to conclude that therefore it is not a moral
relationship? That it has nothing to do with justice?

The Canadian novelist Margaret Atwood begins a recent book on
debt with a similar paradox:

Nature Writer Ernest Thompson Seton had an odd bill pre-
sented to him on his twenty-first birthday. It was a record kept
by his father of all the expenses connected with young Ernest's
childhood and youth, including the fee charged by the doctor
for delivering him. Even more oddly, Ernest is said to have paid
it. I used to think that Mr. Seton Senior was a jerk, but now
I'm wondering.5

Most of us wouldn't wonder much. Such behavior seems mon-
strous, inhuman. Certainly Seton did: he paid the bill, but never spoke
to his father again afterward.6 And in a way, this is precisely why the
presentation of such a bill seems so outrageous. Squaring accounts
means that the two parties have the ability to walk away from each
other. By presenting it, his father suggested he'd just as soon have noth-
ing further to do with him.

In other words, while most of us can imagine what we owe to our
parents as a kind of debt, few of us can imagine being able to actually
pay it — or even that such a debt ever should be paid. Yet if it can't be
paid, in what sense is it a "debt" at all? And if it is not a debt, what
is it?

One obvious place to look for alternatives is in cases of human inter-
action in which expectations of reciprocity seem to slam into a wall.
Nineteenth-century travelers' accounts, for instance, are full of this sort
of thing. Missionaries working in certain parts of Africa would often
be astounded by the reactions they would receive when they adminis-
tered medicines. Here's a typical example, from a British missionary
in Congo:

A day or two after we reached Vana we found one of the na-
tives very ill with pneumonia. Comber treated him and kept
him alive on strong fowl-soup; a great deal of careful nursing
and attention was visited on him, for his house was beside the
camp. When we were ready to go on our way again, the man
was well. To our astonishment he came and asked us for a

THE MORAL GROUNDS OF ECONOMIC RELATIONS

present, and was as astonished and disgusted as he had made
us to be, when we declined giving it. We suggested that it was
his place to bring us a present and to show some gratitude.
He said to us, "Well indeed! You white men have no shame!"7

In the early decades of the twentieth century, the French philoso-
pher Lucien Levy-Bruhl, in an attempt to prove that "natives" oper-
ated with an entirely different form of logic, compiled a list of similar
stories: for instance, of a man saved from drowning who proceeded to
ask his rescuer to give him some nice clothes to wear, or another who,
on being nursed back to health after having been savaged by a tiger,
demanded a knife. One French missionary working in Central Africa
insisted that such things happened to him on a regular basis:

You save a person's life, and you must expect to receive a visit
from him before long; you are now under an obligation to him,
and you will not get rid of him except by giving him presents.8

Now, certainly, there is almost always felt to be something ex-
traordinary about saving a life. Anything surrounding birth and death
almost cannot help but partake of the infinite, and, therefore, throw
all everyday means of moral calculation askew. This is probably why
stories like this had become something of a cliche in America when I
was growing up. I remember as a child several times being told that
among the Inuit (or sometimes it was among Buddhists, or Chinese,
but curiously, never Africans) — that if one saves someone else's life,
one is considered responsible for taking care of that person forever.
It defies our sense of reciprocity. But somehow, it also makes a weird
kind of sense.

We have no way of knowing what was really going on in the minds
of the patients in these stories, since we don't know who they were
or what sort of expectations they had (how they normally interacted
with their doctors, for example). But we can guess. Let's try a thought
experiment. Imagine that we are dealing with a place where, if one
man saved another's life, the two became like brothers. Each was now
expected to share everything, and to provide for the other when he
was in need. If so, the patient would surely notice that his new brother
appeared to be extraordinarily wealthy, not in much need of anything,
but that he, the patient, was lacking in many things the missionary
could provide.

Alternately (and more likely), imagine that we are dealing not with
a relationship of radical equality but the very opposite. In many parts

DEBT

of Africa, accomplished curers were also important political figures
with extensive clienteles of former patients. A would-be follower thus
arrives to declare his political allegiance. What complicates the matter
in this case is that followers of great men, in this part of Africa, were
in a relatively strong bargaining position. Good henchmen were hard
to come by; important people were expected to be generous with fol-
lowers to keep them from joining some rival's entourage instead. If so,
asking for a shirt or knife would be a way of asking for confirmation
that the missionary does wish to have the man as a follower. Paying
him back, in contrast, would be, like Seton's gesture to his father, an
insult: a way of saying that despite the missionary having saved his life,
he would just as soon have nothing further to do with him.

This is a thought experiment — because we don't really know what the
African patients were thinking. The point is that such forms of radical
equality and radical inequality do exist in the world, that each carries
within it its own kind of morality, its own way of thinking and arguing
about the rights and wrongs of any given situation, and these morali-
ties are entirely different than that of tit-for-tat exchange. In the rest of
the chapter, I will provide a rough-and-ready way to map out the main
possibilities, by proposing that there are three main moral principles
on which economic relations can be founded, all of which occur in
any human society, and which I will call communism, hierarchy, and
exchange.

Communism

I will define communism here as any human relationship that operates
on the principles of "from each according to their abilities, to each ac-
cording to their needs."

I admit that the usage here is a bit provocative. "Communism" is
a word that can evoke strong emotional reactions — mainly, of course,
because we tend to identify it with "communist" regimes. This is iron-
ic, since the Communist parties that ruled over the USSR and its sat-
ellites, and that still rule China and Cuba, never described their own
systems as "communist." They described them as "socialist." "Com-
munism" was always a distant, somewhat fuzzy Utopian ideal, usually

THE MORAL GROUNDS OF ECONOMIC RELATIONS

to be accompanied by the withering away of the state — to be achieved
at some point in the distant future.

Our thinking about communism has been dominated by a myth.
Once upon a time, humans held all things in common — in the Gar-
den of Eden, during the Golden Age of Saturn, in Paleolithic hunter-
gatherer bands. Then came the Fall, as a result of which we are now
cursed with divisions of power and private property. The dream was
that someday, with the advance of technology and general prosperity,
with social revolution or the guidance of the Party, we would finally
be in a position to put things back, to restore common ownership and
common management of collective resources. Throughout the last two
centuries, Communists and anti-Communists argued over how plau-
sible this picture was and whether it would be a blessing or a night-
mare. But they all agreed on the basic framework: communism was
about collective property, "primitive communism" did once exist in the
distant past, and someday it might return.

We might call this "mythic communism" — or even, "epic
communism" — a story we like to tell ourselves. Since the days of the
French Revolution, it has inspired millions; but it has also done enor-
mous damage to humanity. It's high time, I think, to brush the entire
argument aside. In fact, "communism" is not some magical Utopia,
and neither does it have anything to do with ownership of the means
of production. It is something that exists right now — that exists, to
some degree, in any human society, although there has never been one
in which everything has been organized in that way, and it would be
difficult to imagine how there could be. All of us act like communists
a good deal of the time. None of us acts like a communist consistently.
"Communist society" — in the sense of a society organized exclusively
on that single principle — could never exist. But all social systems, even
economic systems like capitalism, have always been built on top of a
bedrock of actually-existing communism.

Starting, as I say, from the principle of "from each according to
their abilities, to each according to their needs" allows us to look past
the question of individual or private ownership (which is often little
more than formal legality anyway) and at much more immediate and
practical questions of who has access to what sorts of things and under
what conditions.9 Whenever it is the operative principle, even if it's just
two people who are interacting, we can say we are in the presence of
a sort of communism.

Almost everyone follows this principle if they are collaborating on
some common project.10 If someone fixing a broken water pipe says,
"Hand me the wrench," his co-worker will not, generally speaking,

DEBT

say, "And what do I get for it?" — even if they are working for Exxon-
Mobil, Burger King, or Goldman Sachs. The reason is simple efficiency
(ironically enough, considering the conventional wisdom that "com-
munism just doesn't work"): if you really care about getting something
done, the most efficient way to go about it is obviously to allocate tasks
by ability and give people whatever they need to do them." One might
even say that it's one of the scandals of capitalism that most capital-
ist firms, internally, operate communistically. True, they don't tend
to operate very democratically. Most often they are organized around
military-style top-down chains of command. But there is often an in-
teresting tension here, because top-down chains of command are not
particularly efficient: they tend to promote stupidity among those on
top, resentful foot-dragging among those on the bottom. The greater
the need to improvise, the more democratic the cooperation tends to
become. Inventors have always understood this, start-up capitalists fre-
quently figure it out, and computer engineers have recently rediscov-
ered the principle: not only with things like freeware, which everyone
talks about, but even in the organization of their businesses. Apple
Computers is a famous example: it was founded by (mostly Republi-
can) computer engineers who broke from IBM in Silicon Valley in the
1980s, forming little democratic circles of twenty to forty people with
their laptops in each other's garages.

This is presumably also why in the immediate wake of great di-
sasters— a flood, a blackout, or an economic collapse — people tend
to behave the same way, reverting to a rough-and-ready communism.
However briefly, hierarchies and markets and the like become luxuries
that no one can afford. Anyone who has lived through such a moment
can speak to their peculiar qualities, the way that strangers become
sisters and brothers and human society itself seems to be reborn. This
is important, because it shows that we are not simply talking about
cooperation. In fact, communism is the foundation of all human socia-
bility. It is what makes society possible. There is always an assumption
that anyone who is not actually an enemy can be expected on the prin-
ciple of "from each according to their abilities," at least to an extent:
for example, if one needs to figure out how to get somewhere, and the
other knows the way.

We so take this for granted, in fact, that the exceptions are them-
selves revealing. E.E. Evans-Pritchard, an anthropologist who in the
1920s carried out research among the Nuer, Nilotic pastoralists in
southern Sudan, reports his discomfiture when he realized that some-
one had intentionally given him wrong directions:

THE MORAL GROUNDS OF ECONOMIC RELATIONS

On one occasion I asked the way to a certain place and was
deliberately deceived. I returned in chagrin to camp and asked
the people why they had told me the wrong way. One of them
replied, "You are a foreigner, why should we tell you the right
way? Even if a Nuer who was a stranger asked us the way we
would say to him, 'You continue straight along that path,' but
we would not tell him that the path forked. Why should we tell
him? But you are now a member of our camp and you are kind
to our children, so we will tell you the right way in future."12

The Nuer are constantly engaged in feuds; any stranger might well
turn out to be an enemy there to scout out a good place for an am-
bush, and it would be unwise to give such a person useful information.
What's more, Evans-Pritchard's own situation was obviously relevant,
since he was an agent of the British government — the same government
that had recently sent in the RAF to strafe and bomb the inhabitants
of this very settlement before forcibly resettling them there. Under
the circumstances, the inhabitants' treatment of Evans-Pritchard seems
quite generous. The main point, though, is that it requires something
on this scale — an immediate threat to life and limb, terror-bombing of
civilian populations — before people will ordinarily consider not giving
a stranger accurate directions. '•'

It's not just directions. Conversation is a domain particularly dis-
posed to communism. Lies, insults, put-downs, and other sorts of ver-
bal aggression are important — but they derive most of their power
from the shared assumption that people do not ordinarily act this way:
an insult does not sting unless one assumes that others will normally
be considerate of one's feelings, and it's impossible to lie to someone
who does not assume you would ordinarily tell the truth. When we
genuinely wish to break off amicable relations with someone, we stop
speaking to them entirely.

The same goes for small courtesies like asking for a light, or even
for a cigarette. It seems more legitimate to ask a stranger for a cigarette
than for an equivalent amount of cash, or even food; in fact, if one has
been identified as a fellow smoker, it's rather difficult to refuse such a
request. In such cases — a match, a piece of information, holding the
elevator — one might say the "from each" element is so minimal that
most of us comply without even thinking about it. Conversely, the
same is true if another person's need — even a stranger's — is particular-
ly spectacular or extreme: if he is drowning, for example. If a child has
fallen onto the subway tracks, we assume that anyone who is capable
of helping her up will do so.

DEBT

I will call this "baseline communism": the understanding that,
unless people consider themselves enemies, if the need is considered
great enough, or the cost considered reasonable enough, the principle
of "from each according to their abilities, to each according to their
needs" will be assumed to apply. Of course, different communities ap-
ply very different standards. In large, impersonal urban communities,
such a standard may go no further than asking for a light or directions.
This might not seem like much, but it founds the possibility of larger
social relations. In smaller, less impersonal communities — especially
those not divided into social classes — the same logic will likely extend
much further: for example, it is often effectively impossible to refuse
a request not just for tobacco, but for food — sometimes even from
a stranger; certainly from anyone considered to belong to the com-
munity. Exactly one page after describing his difficulties in asking for
directions, Evans-Pritchard notes that these same Nuer find it almost
impossible, when dealing with someone they have accepted as a mem-
ber of their camp, to refuse a request for almost any item of common
consumption, so that a man or woman known to have anything extra
in the way of grain, tobacco, tools, or agricultural implements can be
expected to see their stockpiles disappear almost immediately.14 How-
ever, this baseline of openhanded sharing and generosity never extends
to everything. Often, in fact, things freely shared are treated as trivial
and unimportant for that very reason. Among the Nuer, true wealth
takes the form of cattle. No one would freely share their cattle; in fact,
young Nuer men learn that they are expected to defend their cattle
with their lives; for this reason, cattle are neither bought nor sold.

The obligation to share food, and whatever else is considered a ba-
sic necessity, tends to become the basis of everyday morality in a society
whose members see themselves as equals. Another anthropologist, Au-
drey Richards, once described how Bemba mothers, "such lax discipli-
narians in everything else," will scold their children harshly if they give
one an orange or some other treat and the child does not immediately
offer to share it with her friends.15 But sharing is also, in such societies —
in any, if we really think about it — a major focus of life's pleasures.
As a result, the need to share is particularly acute in both the best of
times and the worst of times: during famines, for example, but also
during moments of extreme plenty. Early missionary accounts of native
North Americans almost invariably include awestruck remarks on gen-
erosity in times of famine, often to total strangers.16 At the same time,

On returning from their fishing, their hunting, and their trading,
they exchange many gifts; if they have thus obtained something

THE MORAL GROUNDS OF ECONOMIC RELATIONS

unusually good, even if they have bought it, or if it has been
given to them, they make a feast to the whole village with it.
Their hospitality towards all sorts of strangers is remarkable.17

The more elaborate the feast, the more likely one is to see some
combination of free sharing of some things (for instance, food and
drink) and careful distribution of others: say, prize meat, whether from
game or sacrifice, which is often parceled out according to very elabo-
rate protocols or equally elaborate gift exchange. The giving and tak-
ing of gifts often takes on a distinctly gamelike quality, continuous
often with the actual games, contests, pageants, and performances that
also often mark popular festivals. As with society at large, the shared
conviviality could be seen as a kind of communistic base on top of
which everything else is constructed. It also helps to emphasize that
sharing is not simply about morality, but also about pleasure. Soli-
tary pleasures will always exist, but for most human beings, the most
pleasurable activities almost always involve sharing something: music,
food, liquor, drugs, gossip, drama, beds. There is a certain communism
of the senses at the root of most things we consider fun.

The surest way to know that one is in the presence of commu-
nistic relations is that not only are no accounts taken, but it would
be considered offensive, or simply bizarre, to even consider doing so.
Each village, clan, or nation within the League of the Hodenosaunee,
or Iroquois, for example, was divided into two halves.18 This is a com-
mon pattern: in other parts of the world (Amazonia, Melanesia) too,
there are arrangements in which members of one side can only marry
someone from the other side, or only eat food grown on the other side;
such rules are explicitly designed to make each side dependent on the
other for some basic necessity of life. Among the Six Iroquois, each side
was expected to bury the other's dead. Nothing would be more absurd
than for one side to complain that, "last year, we buried five of your
dead, but you only buried two of ours."

Baseline communism might be considered the raw material of soci-
ality, a recognition of our ultimate interdependence that is the ultimate
substance of social peace. Still, in most circumstances, that minimal
baseline is not enough. One always behaves in a spirit of solidarity
more with some people than others, and certain institutions are spe-
cifically based on principles of solidarity and mutual aid. First among
these are those we love, with mothers being the paradigm of selfless
love. Others include close relatives, wives and husbands, lovers, one's
closest friends. These are the people with whom we share everything,
or at least to whom we know we can turn in need, which is the

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definition of a true friend everywhere. Such friendships may be formal-
ized by a ritual as "bond-friends" or "blood brothers" who cannot
refuse each other anything. As a result, any community could be seen
as criss-crossed with relations of "individualistic communism," one-to-
one relations that operate, to varying intensities and degrees, on the
basis of "from each according to their ability, to each according to
their needs.'"9

This same logic can be, and is, extended within groups: not only
cooperative work groups, but almost any in-group will define itself by
creating its own sort of baseline communism. There will be certain
things shared or made freely available within the group, others that
anyone will be expected to provide for other members on request, that
one would never share with or provide to outsiders: help in repair-
ing one's nets in an association of fisherman, stationery supplies in
an office, certain sorts of information among commodity traders, and
so forth. Also, certain categories of people we can always call on in
certain situations, such as harvesting or moving house.20 One could go
on from here to various forms of sharing, pooling, who gets to call on
whom for help with certain tasks: moving, or harvesting, or even, if
one is in trouble, providing an interest-free loan. Finally, there are the
different sorts of "commons," the collective administration of common
resources.

The sociology of everyday communism is a potentially enormous
field, but one which, owing to our peculiar ideological blinkers, we
have been unable to write about because we have been largely unable
to see it. Rather than try to further outline it, I will limit myself to
three final points.

First, we are not really dealing with reciprocity here — or at best,
only with reciprocity in the broadest sense.21 What is equal on both
sides is the knowledge that the other person would do the same for
you, not that they necessarily will. The Iroquois example brings home
clearly what makes this possible: that such relations are based on a
presumption of eternity. Society will always exist. Therefore, there
will always be a north and a south side of the village. This is why no
accounts need be taken. In a similar way, people tend to treat their
mothers and best friends as if they will always exist, however well they
know it isn't true.

The second point has to do with the famous "law of hospitality."
There is a peculiar tension between a common stereotype of what are
called "primitive societies" (people lacking both states and markets)
as societies in which anyone not a member of the community is as-
sumed to be an enemy, and the frequent accounts of early European

THE MORAL GROUNDS OF ECONOMIC RELATIONS

101

travelers awestruck by the extraordinary generosity shown them by
actual "savages." Granted, there is a certain truth to both sides. Wher-
ever a stranger is a dangerous potential enemy, the normal way to
overcome the danger is by some dramatic gesture of generosity whose
very magnificence catapults them into that mutual sociality that is the
ground for all peaceful social relations. True, when one is dealing with
completely unknown quantities, there is often a process of testing. Both
Christopher Columbus, in Hispaniola, and Captain Cook, in Polynesia,
reported similar stories of islanders who either flee, attack, or offer
everything — but who often later enter the boats and help themselves to
anything they take a fancy to, provoking threats of violence from the
crew, who then did their utmost to establish the principle that relations
between strange peoples should be mediated instead by "normal" com-
mercial exchange.

It's understandable that dealings with potentially hostile strangers
should encourage an all-or-nothing logic, a tension preserved even in
English in the etymology of the words "host," "hostile," "hostage,"
and indeed "hospitality," all of which are derived from the same Latin
root.22 What I want to emphasize here is that all such gestures are
simply exaggerated displays of that very "baseline communism" that I
have already argued is the ground of all human social life. This is why,
for instance, the difference between friends and enemies is so often
articulated through food — and often the most commonplace, humble,
domestic sorts of food: as in the familiar principle, common in both
Europe and the Middle East, that those who have shared bread and
salt must never harm one another. In fact, those things that exist above
all to be shared often become those things one cannot share with en-
emies. Among the Nuer, so free with food and everyday possessions,
if one man murders another, a blood feud follows. Everyone in the
vicinity will often have to line up on one side or another, and those on
opposite sides are strictly forbidden to eat with anyone on the other,
or even to drink from a cup or bowl one of their newfound enemies
has previously used, lest terrible results ensue.23 The extraordinary in-
convenience this creates is a major incentive to try to negotiate some
sort of settlement. By the same token, it is often said that people who
have shared food, or the right, archetypal kind of food, are forbidden
to harm one another, however much they might be otherwise inclined
to do so. At times, this can take on an almost comical formality, as in
the Arab story of the burglar who, while ransacking someone's house,
stuck his finger in a jar to see if it was full of sugar, only to discover
it was full of salt instead. Realizing that he had now eaten salt at the
owner's table, he dutifully put back everything he'd stolen.

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Finally, once we start thinking of communism as a principle of
morality rather than just a question of property ownership, it becomes
clear that this sort of morality is almost always at play to some degree
in any transaction — even commerce. If one is on sociable terms with
someone, it's hard to completely ignore their situation. Merchants of-
ten reduce prices for the needy. This is one of the main reasons why
shopkeepers in poor neighborhoods are almost never of the same ethnic
group as their customers; it would be almost impossible for a merchant
who grew up in the neighborhood to make money, as they would be
under constant pressure to give financial breaks, or at least easy credit
terms, to their impoverished relatives and school chums. The opposite
is true as well. An anthropologist who lived for some time in rural Java
once told me that she measured her linguistic abilities by how well she
could bargain at the local bazaar. It frustrated her that she could never
get it down to a price as low as local people seemed pay. "Well," a Ja-
vanese friend finally had to explain, "they charge rich Javanese people
more, too."

Once again, we are back to the principle that if the needs (for
instance, dire poverty), or the abilities (for instance, wealth beyond
imagination), are sufficiently dramatic, then unless there is a complete
absence of sociality, some degree of communistic morality will almost
inevitably enter into the way people take accounts.24 A Turkish folktale
about the Medieval Sufi mystic Nasruddin Hodja illustrates the com-
plexities thus introduced into the very concept of supply and demand:

One day when Nasruddin was left in charge of the local tea-
house, the king and some retainers, who had been hunting
nearby, stopped in for breakfast.

"Do you have quail eggs?" asked the king.

"I'm sure I can find some," answered Nasruddin.

The king ordered an omelet of a dozen quail eggs, and
Nasruddin hurried out to look for them. After the king and his
party had eaten, he charged them a hundred gold pieces.

The king was puzzled. "Are quail eggs really that rare in this
part of the country?"

"It's not so much quail eggs that are rare around here,"
Nasruddin replied. "It's more visits from kings."

Exchange

Communism, then, is based neither in exchange nor in reciprocity —
except, as I have observed, in the sense that it does involve mutual ex-
pectations and responsibilities. Even here, it seems better to use another

THE MORAL GROUNDS OF ECONOMIC RELATIONS

103

word ("mutuality"?) so as to emphasize that exchange operates on
entirely different principles; that it's a fundamentally different kind of
moral logic.

Exchange is all about equivalence. It's a back-and-forth process
involving two sides in which each side gives as good as it gets. This
is why one can speak of people exchanging words (if there's an argu-
ment), blows, or even gunfire.25 In these examples, it's not that there
is ever an exact equivalence — even if there were some way to measure
an exact equivalence — but more a constant process of interaction tend-
ing toward equivalence. Actually, there's something of a paradox here:
each side in each case is trying to outdo the other, but, unless one side
is utterly put to rout, it's easiest to break the whole thing off when
both consider the outcome to be more or less even. When we move to
the exchange of material goods, we find a similar tension. Often there
is an element of competition; if nothing else, there's always that pos-
sibility. But at the same time, there's a sense that both sides are keeping
accounts, and that, unlike what happens in communism, which always
partakes of a certain notion of eternity, the entire relationship can be
canceled out, and either party can call an end to it at any time.

This element of competition can work in completely different
ways. In cases of barter or commercial exchange, when both parties to
the transaction are only interested in the value of goods being trans-
acted, they may well — as economists insist they should — try to seek the
maximum material advantage. On the other hand, as anthropologists
have long pointed out, when the exchange is of gifts, that is, the objects
passing back and forth are mainly considered interesting in how they
reflect on and rearrange relations between the people carrying out the
transaction, then insofar as competition enters in, it is likely to work
precisely the other way around — to become a matter of contests of
generosity, of people showing off who can give more away.

Let me take these one at a time.

What marks commercial exchange is that it's "impersonal": who it
is that is selling something to us, or buying something from us, should
in principle be entirely irrelevant. We are simply comparing the value
or two objects. True, as with any principle, in practice, this is rarely
completely true. There has to be some minimal element of trust for a
transaction to be carried out at all, and, unless one is dealing with a
vending machine, that usually requires some outward display of social-
ity. Even in the most impersonal shopping mall or supermarket, clerks
are expected to at least simulate personal warmth, patience, and other
reassuring qualities; in a Middle-Eastern bazaar, one might have to go
through an elaborate process of establishing a simulated friendship,
sharing tea, food, or tobacco, before engaging in similarly elaborate

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haggling — an interesting ritual that begins by establishing sociality
through baseline communism — and continues with an often prolonged
mock battle over prices. It's all done on the basis of the assumption
that buyer and seller are, at least at that moment, friends (and thus
each entitled to feel outraged and indignant at the other's unreasonable
demands), but it's all a little piece of theater. Once the object changes
hands, there is no expectation that the two will ever have anything to
do with each other again.26

Most often this sort of haggling — in Madagascar the term for it
literally means "to battle out a sale" {miady varotra) — can be a source
of pleasure in itself.

The first time I visited Analakely, the great cloth market in Mada-
gascar's capital, I came with a Malagasy friend intent on buying a
sweater. The whole process took about four hours. It went something
like this: my friend would spot a likely sweater hanging in some booth,
ask the price, and then she would begin a prolonged battle of wits with
the vendor, invariably involving dramatic displays of insult and indig-
nation, and simulated walkings off in disgust. Often it seemed ninety
percent of the argument was spent on a final, tiny difference of a few
ariary — literally, pennies — that seemed to become a profound matter of
principle on either side, since a merchant's failure to concede it could
sink the entire deal.

The second time I visited Analakely I went with another friend,
also a young woman, who had a list of measures of cloth to buy sup-
plied by her sister. At each booth she adopted the same procedure: she
simply walked up and asked for the price.

The man would quote her one.

"All right," she then asked, "and what's your real final price?"
He'd tell her, and she'd hand over the money.
"Wait a minute!" I asked. "You can do that?
"Sure," she said. "Why not?"

I explained what had happened with my last friend.

"Oh, yeah," she said. "Some people enjoy that sort of thing."

Exchange allows us to cancel out our debts. It gives us a way to
call it even: hence, to end the relationship. With vendors, one is usu-
ally only pretending to have a relationship at all. With neighbors,
one might for this very reason prefer not to pay one's debts. Laura
Bohannan writes about arriving in a Tiv community in rural Nigeria;
neighbors immediately began arriving bearing little gifts: "two ears
corn, one vegetable marrow, one chicken, five tomatoes, one handful
peanuts."27 Having no idea what was expected of her, she thanked
them and wrote down in a notebook their names and what they had

THE MORAL GROUNDS OF ECONOMIC RELATIONS

105

brought. Eventually, two women adopted her and explained that all
such gifts did have to be returned. It would be entirely inappropriate
to simply accept three eggs from a neighbor and never bring anything
back. One did not have to bring back eggs, but one should bring some-
thing back of approximately the same value. One could even bring
money — there was nothing inappropriate in that — provided one did
so at a discreet interval, and above all, that one did not bring the
exact cost of the eggs. It had to be either a bit more or a bit less. To
bring back nothing at all would be to cast oneself as an exploiter or a
parasite. To bring back an exact equivalent would be to suggest that
one no longer wishes to have anything to do with the neighbor. Tiv
women, she learned, might spend a good part of the day walking for
miles to distant homesteads to return a handful of okra or a tiny bit of
change, "in an endless circle of gifts to which no one ever handed over
the precise value of the object last received" — and in doing so, they
were continually creating their society. There was certainly a trace of
communism here — neighbors on good terms could also be trusted to
help each other out in emergencies — but unlike communistic relations,
which are assumed to be permanent, this sort of neighborliness had to
be constantly created and maintained, because any link can be broken
off at any time.

There are endless variations on this sort of tit-for-tat, or almost
tit-for-tat, gift exchange. The most familiar is the exchange of presents:
I buy someone a beer; they buy me the next one. Perfect equivalence
implies equality. But consider a slightly more complicated example: I
take a friend out to a fancy restaurant for dinner; after a discreet inter-
val, they do the same. As anthropologists have long been in the habit of
pointing out, the very existence of such customs — especially, the feeling
that one really ought to return the favor — can't be explained by stan-
dard economic theory, which assumes that any human interaction is
ultimately a business deal and that we are all self-interested individuals
trying to get the most for ourselves for the least cost or least amount
of effort.28 But this feeling is quite real, and it can cause genuine strain
for those of limited means trying to keep up appearances. So: Why,
if I took a free-market economic theorist out to an expensive dinner,
would that economist feel somewhat diminished — uncomfortably in
my debt — until he had been able to return the favor? Why, if he were
feeling competitive with me, would he be inclined to take me to some-
place even more expensive?

Recall the feasts and festivals alluded to above: here, too, there is a
base of conviviality and playful (sometimes not so playful) competition.
On the one hand, everyone's pleasure is enhanced — after all, how many

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people would really want to eat a superb meal at a French restau-
rant all alone? On the other, things can easily slip into games of one-
upmanship — and hence obsession, humiliation, rage . . . or, as we'll
soon see, even worse. In some societies, these games are formalized,
but it's important to stress that such games only really develop between
people or groups who perceive themselves to be more or less equivalent
in status.29 To return to our imaginary economist: it's not clear that
he would feel diminished if he received a present, or was taken out to
dinner, by just anyone. He would be most likely to feel this way if the
benefactor were someone he felt was of roughly equivalent status or
dignity: a colleague, for example. If Bill Gates or George Soros took
him out to dinner, he would likely conclude that he had indeed re-
ceived something for nothing and leave it at that. If some ingratiating
junior colleague or eager graduate student did the same, he'd be likely
to conclude that he was doing the man a favor just by accepting the
invitation — if indeed he did accept, which he probably wouldn't.

This, too, appears to be the case wherever we find society divided
into fine gradations of status and dignity. Pierre Bourdieu has described
the "dialectic of challenge and riposte" that governs all games of honor
among Kabyle Berber men in Algeria, in which the exchange of insults,
attacks (in feud or battles), thefts, or threats was seen to follow exactly
the same logic as the exchange of gifts.30 To give a gift is both an honor
and a provocation. To respond to one requires infinite artistry. Timing
is all-important. So is making the counter-gift just different enough, but
also just slightly grander. Above all is the tacit moral principle that one
must always pick on someone one's own size. To challenge someone
obviously older, richer, and more honorable is to risk being snubbed,
and hence humiliated; to overwhelm a poor but respectable man with
a gift he couldn't possibly pay back is simply cruel, and will do equal
damage to your reputation. There's an Indonesian story about that too:
about a rich man who sacrificed a magnificent ox to shame a penurious
rival; the poor man utterly humiliated him, and won the contest, by
calmly proceeding to sacrifice a chicken.31

Games like this become especially elaborate when status is to some
degree up for grabs. When matters are too clear-cut, that introduces
its own sorts of problems. Giving gifts to kings is often a particularly
tricky and complicated business. The problem here is that one cannot
really give a gift fit for a king (unless, perhaps, one is another king),
since kings by definition already have everything. On the one hand, one
is expected to make a reasonable effort:

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Nasruddin was once called up to visit the king. A neighbor saw
him hurrying along the road carrying a bag of turnips.
"What are those for?" he asked.

"I've been called to see the king. I thought it would be best
to bring some kind of present."

"You're bringing him turnips? But turnips are peasant food!
He's a king! You should bring him something more appropri-
ate, like grapes."

Nasruddin agreed, and came to the king carrying a bunch of
grapes. The king was not amused. "You're giving me grapes?
But I'm a king! This is ridiculous. Take this idiot out and teach
him some manners! Throw each and every one of the grapes at
him and then kick him out of the palace."

The emperor's guards dragged Nasruddin into a side room
and began pelting him with grapes. As they did so, he fell on
his knees and began crying, "Thank you, thank you God, for
your infinite mercy!"

"Why are you thanking God?" they asked. "You're being
totally humiliated!"

Nasruddin replied, "Oh, I was just thinking, 'Thank God I
didn't bring the turnips!'"

On the other hand, to give something that a king does not already
have can get you in even greater trouble. One story circulating in the
early Roman Empire concerned an inventor who, with great fanfare,
presented a glass bowl as a gift to the emperor Tiberius. The emperor
was puzzled: What was so impressive about a piece of glass? The man
dropped it on the ground. Rather than shattering, it merely dented. He
picked it up and simply pushed it back into its former shape.

"Did you tell anyone else how you made this thing?" asked a
startled Tiberius.

The inventor assured him that he had not. The emperor therefore
ordered him killed, since, if word of how to make unbreakable glass
got out, his treasury of gold and silver would soon be worthless.32

The best bet when dealing with kings was to make a reason-
able effort to play the game, but one that is still bound to fail. The
fourteenth-century Arab traveler Ibn Battuta tells of the customs of
the King of Sind, a terrifying monarch who took a particular delight
in displays of arbitrary power.33 It was customary for foreign worthies
visiting the king to present him with magnificent presents; whatever
the gift was, he would invariably respond by presenting the bearer
with something many times its value. As a result, a substantial business

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developed where local bankers would lend money to such visitors to
finance particularly spectacular gifts, knowing they could be well re-
paid from the proceeds of royal one-upmanship. The king must have
known about this. He didn't object — since the whole point was to
show that his wealth exceeded all possible equivalence — and if he re-
ally needed to, he could always expropriate the bankers. They knew
that the really important game was not economic, but one of status,
and his was absolute.

In exchange, the objects being traded are seen as equivalent. There-
fore, by implication, so are the people: at least, at the moment when
gift is met with counter-gift, or money changes hands; when there is
no further debt or obligation and each of the two parties is equally
free to walk away. This in turn implies autonomy. Both principles sit
uncomfortably with monarchs, which is the reason that kings generally
dislike any sort of exchange.34 But within that overhanging prospect of
potential cancellation, of ultimate equivalence, we find endless varia-
tions, endless games one can play. One can demand something from
another person, knowing that by doing so, one is giving the other the
right to demand something of equivalent value in return. In some con-
texts, even praising another's possession might be interpreted as a de-
mand of this sort. In eighteenth-century New Zealand, English settlers
soon learned that it was not a good idea to admire, say, a particularly
beautiful jade pendant worn around the neck of a Maori warrior; the
latter would inevitably insist on giving it, not take no for an answer,
and then, after a discreet interval, return to praise the settler's coat
or gun. The only way to head this off was to quickly give him a gift
before he could ask for one. Sometimes gifts are offered in order for
the giver to be able to make such a demand: if one accepts the present,
one is tacitly agreeing to allow the giver to claim whatever he deems
equivalent."

All this, in turn, can shade into something very much like barter,
directly swapping one thing for another — which as we've seen does
occur even in what Marcel Mauss liked to refer to as "gift econo-
mies," even if largely between strangers.16 Within communities, there
is almost always a reluctance, as the Tiv example so nicely illustrates,
to allow things to cancel out — one reason that if there is money in
common usage, people will often either refuse to use it with friends or
relatives (which in a village society includes pretty much everyone), or
alternately, like the Malagasy villagers in chapter 3, use it in radically
different ways.

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Hierarchy

Exchange, then, implies formal equality — or at least, the potential for
it. This is precisely why kings have such trouble with it.

In contrast, relations of explicit hierarchy — that is, relations be-
tween at least two parties in which one is considered superior to the
other — do not tend to operate by reciprocity at all. It's hard to see
because the relation is often justified in reciprocal terms ("the peas-
ants provide food, the lords provide protection"), but the principle by
which they operate is exactly the opposite. In practice, hierarchy tends
to work by a logic of precedent.

To illustrate what I mean by this, let us imagine a kind of con-
tinuum of one-sided social relations, ranging from the most exploit-
ative to the most benevolent. At one extreme is theft, or plunder; on
the other selfless charity.37 Only at these two extremes is it is possible
to have material interactions between people who otherwise have no
social relation of any kind. Only a lunatic would mug his next-door
neighbor. A band of marauding soldiers or nomadic horsemen falling
on a peasant hamlet to rape and pillage also obviously have no inten-
tion of forming any ongoing relations with the survivors. But in a
similar way, religious traditions often insist that the only true charity is
anonymous — in other words, not meant to place the recipient in one's
debt. One extreme form of this, documented in various parts of the
world, is the gift by stealth, in a kind of reverse burglary: to literally
sneak into the recipient's house at night and plant one's present so no
one can know for sure who has left it. The figure of Santa Claus, or
Saint Nicholas (who, it must be remembered, was not just the patron
saint of children, but also the patron saint of thieves) would appear to
be the mythological version of the same principle: a benevolent burglar
with whom no social relations are possible and therefore to whom no
one could possibly owe anything, in his case, above all, because he does
not actually exist.

Observe, however, what happens when one moves just a little bit
less far out on the continuum in either direction. I have been told (I
suspect it isn't true) that in parts of Belarus, gangs prey so systemati-
cally on travelers on trains and busses that they have developed the
habit of giving each victim a little token, to confirm that the bearer has
already been robbed. Obviously one step toward the creation of a state.
Actually, one popular theory of the origins of the state, that goes back
at least to the fourteenth-century North African historian Ibn Khaldun,
runs precisely along these lines: nomadic raiders eventually systematize

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their relations with sedentary villagers; pillage turns into tribute, rape
turns into the "right of the first night" or the carrying off of likely can-
didates as recruits for the royal harem. Conquest, untrammeled force,
becomes systematized, and thus framed not as a predatory relation but
as a moral one, with the lords providing protection, and the villagers,
their sustenance. But even if all parties assume they are operating by a
shared moral code, that even kings cannot do whatever they want but
must operate within limits, allowing peasants to argue about the rights
and wrongs of just how much of their harvest a king's retainers are
entitled to carry off, they are very unlikely to frame their calculation in
terms of the quality or quantity of protection provided, but rather in
terms of custom and precedent: How much did we pay last year? How
much did our ancestors have to pay? The same is true on the other
side. If charitable donations become the basis for any sort of social
relation, it will not be one based on reciprocity. If you give some coins
to a panhandler, and that panhandler recognizes you later, it is unlikely
that he will give you any money — but he might well consider you more
likely to give him money again. Certainly this is true if one donates
money to a charitable organization. (I gave money to the United Farm
Workers once and I still haven't heard the end of it.) Such an act of
one-sided generosity is treated as a precedent for what will be expected
afterward.38 It's quite the same if one gives candy to a child.

This is what I mean when I say that hierarchy operates by a prin-
ciple that is the very opposite of reciprocity. Whenever the lines of su-
periority and inferiority are clearly drawn and accepted by all parties as
the framework of a relationship, and relations are sufficiently ongoing
that we are no longer simply dealing with arbitrary force, then relations
will be seen as being regulated by a web of habit or custom. Sometimes
the situation is assumed to have originated in some founding act of
conquest. Or it might been seen as ancestral custom for which there is
no need of explanation. But this introduces another complication to the
problem of giving gifts to kings — or to any superior: there is always the
danger that it will be treated as a precedent, added to the web of cus-
tom, and therefore considered obligatory thereafter. Xenophon claims
that in the early days of the Persian Empire, each province vied to send
the Great King gifts of its most unique and valuable products. This
became the basis of the tribute system: each province was eventually
expected to provide the same "gifts" every year." Similarly, according
to the great Medieval historian Marc Bloch:

[I]n the ninth century, when one day there was a shortage of
wine in the royal cellars at Ver, the monks of Saint-Denis were

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asked to supply the two hundred hogs-heads required. This
contribution was thenceforth claimed from them as of right
every year, and it required an imperial charter to abolish it. At
Ardres, we are told, there was once a bear, the property of the
local lord. The inhabitants, who loved to watch it fight with
dogs, undertook to feed it. The beast eventually died, but the
lord continued to exact the loaves of bread."40

In other words, any gift to a feudal superior, "especially if repeated
three of four times," was likely to be treated as a precedent and added
to the web of custom. As a result, those giving gifts to superiors often
insisted on receiving a "letter of non-prejudice" legally stipulating that
such a gift would not be required in the future. While it is unusual for
matters to become quite so formalized, any social relation that is as-
sumed from the start to be unequal will inevitably begin to operate on
an analogous logic — if only because, once relations are seen as based
on "custom," the only way to demonstrate that one has a duty or obli-
gation to do something is to show that one has done it before.

Often, such arrangements can turn into a logic of caste: certain
clans are responsible for weaving the ceremonial garments, or bringing
the fish for royal feasts, or cutting the king's hair. They thus come to
be known as weavers or fishermen or barbers.41 This last point can't be
overemphasized because it brings home another truth regularly over-
looked: that the logic of identity is, always and everywhere, entangled
in the logic of hierarchy. It is only when certain people are placed
above others, or where everyone is being ranked in relation to the
king, or the high priest, or Founding Fathers, that one begins to speak
of people bound by their essential nature: about fundamentally differ-
ent kinds of human being. Ideologies of caste or race are just extreme
examples. It happens whenever one group is seen as raising themselves
above others, or placing themselves below others, in such a way that
ordinary standards of fair dealing no longer apply.

In fact, something like this happens in a small way even in our
most intimate social relations. The moment we recognize someone as a
different sort of person, either above or below us, then ordinary rules
of reciprocity become modified or are set aside. If a friend is unusually
generous once, we will likely wish to reciprocate. If she acts this way
repeatedly, we conclude she is a generous person, and are hence less
likely to reciprocate.42

We can describe a simple formula here: a certain action, repeated,
becomes customary; as a result, it comes to define the actor's essential
nature. Alternately, a person's nature may be defined by how others

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have acted toward him in the past. To be an aristocrat is largely to
insist that in the past, others have treated you as an aristocrat (since
aristocrats don't really do anything in particular, most spend their time
simply existing in some sort of putatively superior state), and therefore
should continue to do so. Much of the art of being such a person is that
of treating oneself in such a manner that it conveys how you expect
others to treat you: in the case of actual kings, covering oneself with
gold so as to suggest that others do likewise. On the other end of the
scale, this is also how abuse becomes self-legitimating. As a former
student of mine, Sarah Stillman, pointed out: in the United States, if
a middle-class thirteen-year-old girl is kidnapped, raped, and killed,
it is considered an agonizing national crisis that everyone with a tele-
vision is expected to follow for several weeks. If a thirteen-year-old
girl is turned out as a child prostitute, raped systematically for years,
and ultimately killed, all this is considered unremarkable — really just
the sort of thing one can expect to end up happening to someone
like that.43

When objects of material wealth pass back and forth between su-
periors and inferiors as gifts or payments, the key principle seems to
be that the sorts of things given on each side should be considered
fundamentally different in quality, their relative value impossible to
quantify — the result being that there is no way to even conceive of a
squaring of accounts. Even if Medieval writers insisted on imagining
society as a hierarchy in which priests pray for everyone, nobles fight
for everyone, and peasants feed everyone, it never even occurred to
anyone to establish how many prayers or how much military protec-
tion was equivalent to a ton of wheat. Nor did anyone ever consider
making such a calculation. Neither is it that "lowly" sorts of people are
necessarily given lowly sorts of things and vice versa. Sometimes it is
quite the opposite. Until recently, just about any notable philosopher,
artist, poet, or musician was required to find a wealthy patron for
support. Famous works of poetry or philosophy are often prefaced —
oddly, to the modern eye — with gushing, sycophantic praise for the
wisdom and virtue of some long-forgotten earl or count who provided
a meager stipend. The fact that the noble patron merely provided
room and board, or money, and that the client showed his gratitude
by painting the Mona Lisa, or composing the Toccata and Fugue in
D Minor, was in no way seen to compromise the assumption of the
noble's intrinsic superiority.

There is one great exception to this principle, and that is the phe-
nomenon of hierarchical redistribution. Here, though, rather than giv-
ing back and forth the same sorts of things, they give back and forth

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exactly the same thing: as, for instance, when fans of certain Nigerian
pop stars throw money onto the stage during concerts, and the pop
stars in question make occasional tours of their fans' neighborhoods
tossing (the same) money from the windows of their limos. When this
is all that's going on, we may speak of an absolutely minimal sort of
hierarchy. In much of Papua New Guinea, social life centers on "big
men," charismatic individuals who spend much of their time coaxing,
cajoling, and manipulating in order to acquire masses of wealth to give
away again at some great feast. One could, in practice, pass from here
to, say, an Amazonian or indigenous North American chief. Unlike
big men, their role is more formalized; but actually such chiefs have
no power to compel anyone to do anything they don't want to (hence
North American Indian chiefs' famous skill at oratory and powers of
persuasion). As a result, they tended to give away far more than they
received. Observers often remarked that in terms of personal posses-
sions, a village chief was often the poorest man in the village, such was
the pressure on him for constant supply of largesse.

Indeed, one could judge how egalitarian a society really was by ex-
actly this: whether those ostensibly in positions of authority are merely
conduits for redistribution, or able to use their positions to accumulate
riches. The latter seems most likely in aristocratic societies that add
another element: war and plunder. After all, just about anyone who
comes into a very large amount of wealth will ultimately give at least
part of it away — often in grandiose and spectacular ways to large num-
bers of people. The more of one's wealth is obtained by plunder or
extortion, the more spectacular and self-aggrandizing will be the forms
in which it's given away.44 And what is true of warrior aristocracies
is all the more true of ancient states, where rulers almost invariably
represented themselves as the protectors of the helpless, supporters of
widows and orphans, and champions of the poor. The genealogy of
the modern redistributive state — with its notorious tendency to foster
identity politics — can be traced back not to any sort of "primitive com-
munism" but ultimately to violence and war.

Shifting between Modalities

I should underline again that we are not talking about different types
of society here (as we've seen, the very idea that we've ever been or-
ganized into discrete "societies" is dubious) but moral principles that
always coexist everywhere. We are all communists with 'our closest

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friends, and feudal lords when dealing with small children. It is very
hard to imagine a society where people wouldn't be both.

The obvious question is: If we are all ordinarily moving back and
forth between completely different systems of moral accounting, why
hasn't anybody noticed this? Why, instead, do we continually feel the
need to reframe everything in terms of reciprocity?

Here we must return to the fact that reciprocity is our main way of
imagining justice. In particular, it is what we fall back on when we're
thinking in the abstract, and especially when we're trying to create an
idealized picture of society. I've already given examples of this sort of
thing. Iroquois communities were based on an ethos that required ev-
eryone to be attentive to the needs of several different sorts of people:
their friends, their families, members of their matrilineal clans, even
friendly strangers in situations of hardship. It was when they had to
think about society in the abstract that they started to emphasize the
two sides of the village, each of which had to bury the other's dead.
It was a way of imagining communism through reciprocity. Similarly,
feudalism was a notoriously messy and complicated business, but when-
ever Medieval thinkers generalized about it, they reduced all its ranks
and orders into one simple formula in which each order contributed its
share: "Some pray, some fight, still others work."45 Even hierarchy was
seen as ultimately reciprocal, despite this formula having nothing to
do with the real relations between priests, knights, and peasants really
operated on the ground. Anthropologists are familiar with the phe-
nomenon: it's only when people who have never had occasion to really
think about their society or culture as a whole, who probably weren't
even aware they were living inside something other people considered
a "society" or a "culture," are asked to explain how everything works
that they say things like "this is how we repay our mothers for the pain
of having raised us," or puzzle over conceptual diagrams in which clan
A gives their women in marriage to clan B who gives theirs to clan C,
who gives theirs back to A again, but which never seem to quite cor-
respond to what real people actually do.46 When trying to imagine a
just society, it's hard not to evoke images of balance and symmetry, of
elegant geometries where everything balances out.

The idea that there is something called "the market" is not so very
different. Economists will often admit this, if you ask them in the right
way. Markets aren't real. They are mathematical models, created by
imagining a self-contained world where everyone has exactly the same
motivation and the same knowledge and is engaging in the same self-
interested calculating exchange. Economists are aware that reality is
always more complicated; but they are also aware that to come up with

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a mathematical model, one always has to make the world into a bit of
a cartoon. There's nothing wrong with this. The problem comes when
it enables some (often these same economists) to declare that anyone
who ignores the dictates of the market shall surely be punished — or
that since we live in a market system, everything (except government
interference) is based on principles of justice: that our economic system
is one vast network of reciprocal relations in which, in the end, the
accounts balance and all debts are paid.

These principles get tangled up in each other and it's thus often
difficult to tell which predominates in a given situation — one reason
that it's ridiculous to pretend we could ever reduce human behavior,
economic or otherwise, to a mathematical formula of any sort. Still,
this means that some degree of reciprocity can be detected as poten-
tially present in any situation; so a determined observer can always find
some excuse to say it's there. What's more, certain principles appear
to have an inherent tendency to slip into others. For instance, a lot of
extremely hierarchical relationships can operate (at least some of the
time) on communistic principles. If you have a rich patron, you come
to him in times of need, and he is expected to help you. But only to a
certain degree. No one expects the patron to provide so much help that
it threatens to undermine the underlying inequality.47

Likewise, communistic relations can easily start slipping into rela-
tions of hierarchical inequality — often without anyone noticing it. It's
not hard to see why this happens. Sometimes different people's "abili-
ties" and "needs" are grossly disproportionate. Genuinely egalitarian
societies are keenly aware of this and tend to develop elaborate safe-
guards around the dangers of anyone — say, especially good hunters, in
a hunting society — rising too far above themselves; just as they tend
to be suspicious of anything that might make one member of the so-
ciety feel in genuine debt to another. A member who draws attention
to his own accomplishments will find himself the object of mockery.
Often, the only polite thing to do if one has accomplished something
significant is to instead make fun of oneself. The Danish writer Peter
Freuchen, in his Book of the Eskimo, described how in Greenland, one
could tell what a fine delicacy someone had to offer his guests by how
much he belittled it beforehand:

The old man laughed. "Some people don't know much. I am
such a poor hunter and my wife a terrible cook who ruins
everything. I don't have much, but I think there is a piece of
meat outside. It might still be there as the dogs have refused it
several times."

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This was such a recommendation in the Eskimo way of
backwards bragging that everyone's mouths began to water . . .

The reader will recall the walrus hunter of the last chapter, who
took offense when the author tried to thank him for giving him a share
of meat — after all, humans help one another, and once we treat some-
thing as a gift, we turn into something less than human: "Up here we
say that by gifts one makes slaves and by whips one makes dogs."48

"Gift" here does not mean something given freely, not mutual aid
that we can ordinarily expect human beings to provide to one another.
To thank someone suggests that he or she might not have acted that
way, and that therefore the choice to act this way creates an obliga-
tion, a sense of debt — and hence, inferiority. Communes or egalitarian
collectives in the United States often face similar dilemmas, and they
have to come up with their own safeguards against creeping hierar-
chy. It's not that the tendency for communism to slip into hierarchy
is inevitable — societies like the Inuit have managed to fend it off for
thousands of years — but rather, that one must always guard against it.

In contrast, it's notoriously difficult — often downright impossible —
to shift relations based on an assumption of communistic sharing to
relations of equal exchange. We observe this all the time with friends: if
someone is seen as taking advantage of your generosity, it's often much
easier to break off relations entirely than to demand that they some-
how pay you back. One extreme example is the Maori story about a
notorious glutton who used to irritate fishermen up and down the coast
near where he lived by constantly asking for the best portions of their
catch. Since to refuse a direct request for food was effectively impos-
sible, they would dutifully turn it over; until one day, people decided
enough was enough and killed him.49

We've already seen how creating a ground of sociability among
strangers can often require an elaborate process of testing the oth-
ers' limits by helping oneself to their possessions. The same sort of
thing can happen in peacemaking, or even in the creation of business
partnerships.50 In Madagascar, people told me that two men who are
thinking of going into business together will often become blood broth-
ers. Blood brotherhood, fatidra, consists of an unlimited promise of
mutual aid. Both parties solemnly swear that they will never refuse any
request from the other. In reality, partners to such an agreement are
usually fairly circumspect in what they actually request. But, my friends
insisted, when people first make such an agreement, they sometimes
like to test it out. One may demand the other's house, the shirt off
his back, or (everyone's favorite example) the right to spend the night

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with his wife. The only limit is the knowledge that anything one can
demand, the other one can too.51 Here, again, we are talking about an
initial establishment of trust. Once the genuineness of the mutual com-
mitment has been confirmed, the ground is prepared, as it were, and
the two men can begin to buy and sell on consignment, advance funds,
share profits, and otherwise trust that each will look after the other's
commercial interests from then on. The most famous and dramatic
moments, however, are those when relations of exchange threaten to
break down into hierarchy: that is, when two parties are acting like
equals, trading gifts, or blows, or commodities, or anything else, but
one of them does something that completely flips the scale.

I've already mentioned the tendency of gift exchange to turn into
games of one-upmanship, and how in some societies this potential is
formalized in great public contests. This is typical, above all, of what
are often called "heroic societies": those in which governments are
weak or nonexistent and society is organized instead around warrior
noblemen, each with his entourage of loyal retainers and tied to the
others by ever-shifting alliances and rivalries. Most epic poetry — from
the Iliad to the Mahabharata to Beowulf — harkens back to this sort
of world, and anthropologists have discovered similar arrangements
among the Maori of New Zealand and the Kwakiutl, Tlingit, and
Haida of the American Northwest coast. In heroic societies, the throw-
ing of feasts and resulting contests of generosity are often spoken of
as mere extensions of war: "fighting with property" or "fighting with
food." Those who throw such feasts often indulge in colorful speeches
about how their enemies are thus crushed and destroyed by glorious
feats of generosity aimed in their direction (Kwakiutl chiefs liked to
speak of themselves as great mountains from which gifts rolled like gi-
ant boulders), and of how conquered rivals are thus reduced — much as
in the Inuit metaphor — to slaves.

Such statements are not to be taken literally — another feature of
such societies is a highly developed art of boasting.52 Heroic chiefs and
warriors tended to talk themselves up just as consistently as those in
egalitarian societies talked themselves down. It's not as if someone who
loses out in a contest of gift exchange is ever actually reduced to slav-
ery, but he might end up feeling as if he were. And the consequences
could be catastrophic. One ancient Greek source describes Celtic fes-
tivals where rival nobles would alternate between jousts and contests
of generosity, presenting their enemies with magnificent gold and silver
treasures. Occasionally this could lead to a kind of checkmate; some-
one would be faced with a present so magnificent that he could not
possibly match it. In this case, the only honorable response was for him

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to cut his own throat, thus allowing his wealth to be distributed to his
followers.53 Six hundred years later, we find a case from an Icelandic
saga of an aging Viking named Egil, who befriended a younger man
named Einar, who was still actively raiding. They liked to sit together
composing poetry. One day Einar came by a magnificent shield "in-
scribed with old tales; and between the writing were overlaid spangles
of gold with precious stones." No one had ever seen anything like it.
He took it with him on a visit to Egil. Egil was not at home, so Einar
waited three days, as was the custom, then hung the shield as a present
in the mead-hall and rode off.

Egil returned home, saw the shield, and asked who owned
such a treasure. He was told that Einar had visited and given
it to him. Then Egil said, "To hell with him! Does he think
I'm going to stay up all night and compose a poem about his
shield? Get my horse, I'm going to ride after him and kill him."
As Einar's luck would have it he had left early enough to put
sufficient distance between himself and Egil. So Egil resigned
himself to composing a poem about Einar's gift.14

Competitive gift exchange, then, does not literally render anyone slaves;
it is simply an affair of honor. These are people, however, for whom
honor is everything.

The main reason that being unable to pay a debt, especially a debt
of honor, was such a crisis was because this was how noblemen as-
sembled their entourages. The law of hospitality in the ancient world,
for instance, insisted that any traveler must be fed, given shelter, and
treated as an honored guest — but only for a certain length of time.
If a guest did not go away, he would eventually become a mere sub-
ordinate. The role of such hangers-on has been largely neglected by
students of human history. In many periods — from imperial Rome to
medieval China — probably the most important relationships, at least in
towns and cities, were those of patronage. Anyone rich and important
would find himself surrounded by flunkies, sycophants, perpetual din-
ner guests, and other sorts of willing dependents. Drama and poetry
of the time are full of such characters." Similarly, for much of hu-
man history, being respectable and middle-class meant spending one's
mornings going from door to door, paying one's respects to important
local patrons. To this day, informal patronage systems still crop up,
whenever relatively rich and powerful people feel the need to assemble

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networks of supporters — a practice well documented in many parts
of the Mediterranean, the Middle East, and Latin America. Such rela-
tionships seem to consist of a slapdash mix of all three principles that
I've been mapping out over the course of this chapter; nevertheless,
those observing them insist on trying to cast them in the language of
exchange and debt.

A final example: in a collection called Gifts and Spoils, published in
1971, we find a brief essay by the anthropologist Lorraine Blaxter about
a rural department in the French Pyrenees, most of whose inhabitants
are farmers. Everyone places a great emphasis on the importance of
mutual aid — the local phrase means "giving service" {rendre service).
People living in the same community should look out for one another
and pitch in when their neighbors are having trouble. This is the es-
sence of communal morality, in fact, it's how one knows that any sort
of community exists. So far so good. However, she notes, when some-
one does a particularly great favor, mutual aid can turn into something
else:

If a man in a factory went to the boss and asked for a job, and
the boss found him one, this would be an example of someone
giving service. The man who got the job could never repay the
boss, but he could show him respect, or perhaps give him sym-
bolic gifts of garden produce. If a gift demands a return, and
no tangible return is possible, the repayment will be through
support or esteem.56

Thus does mutual aid slip into inequality. Thus do patron-client
relations come into being. We have already observed this. I chose this
particular passage because the author's phrasing is so weird. It com-
pletely contradicts itself. The boss does the man a favor. The man
cannot repay the favor. Therefore, the man repays the favor by show-
ing up at the boss's house with the occasional basket of tomatoes
and showing him respect. So which one is it? Can he repay the favor,
or not?

Peter Freuchen's walrus hunter would, no doubt, think he knew
exactly what was going on here. Bringing the basket of tomatoes was
simply the equivalent of saying "Thank you." It was a way of ac-
knowledging that one owes a debt of gratitude, that gifts had in fact
made slaves just as whips make dogs. The boss and the employee are
now fundamentally different sorts of people. The problem is that in
all other respects, they are not fundamentally different sorts of people.
Most likely they are both middle-aged Frenchmen, fathers of families,

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citizens of the Republic with similar tastes in music, sports, and food.
They ought to be equals. As a result, even the tomatoes, which are re-
ally a token of recognition of the existence of a debt that can never be
repaid, has to be represented as if it was itself a kind of repayment —
an interest payment on a loan that could, everyone agrees to pretend,
someday be paid back, thus returning the two members to their proper
equal status once again.57

(It's telling that the favor is finding the client a job in a factory,
because what happens is not very different from what happens when
you get a job in a factory to begin with. A wage-labor contract is,
ostensibly, a free contract between equals — but an agreement between
equals in which both agree that once one of them punches the time
clock, they won't be equals any more.58 The law does recognize a bit of
a problem here; that's why it insists that you cannot sell off your equal-
ity permanently [you are not free to sell yourself into slavery]. Such ar-
rangements are only acceptable if the boss's power is not absolute, if it
is limited to work time, and if you have the legal right to break off the
contract and thereby to restore yourself to full equality, at any time.)

It seems to me that this agreement between equals to no longer be
equal (at least for a time) is critically important. It is the very essence
of what we call "debt."

What, then, is debt?

Debt is a very specific thing, and it arises from very specific situ-
ations. It first requires a relationship between two people who do not
consider each other fundamentally different sorts of being, who are
at least potential equals, who are equals in those ways that are really
important, and who are not currently in a state of equality — but for
whom there is some way to set matters straight.

In the case of gift-giving, as we've seen, this requires a certain
equality of status. That's why our economics professor didn't feel any
sense of obligation — any debt of honor — if taken out to dinner by
someone who ranked either much higher or much lower than himself.
With money loans, all that is required is that the two parties be of
equal legal standing. (You can't lend money to a child, or to a lunatic.
Well, you can, but the courts won't help you get it back.) Legal — rather
than moral — debts have other unique qualities. For instance, they can
be forgiven, which isn't always possible with a moral debt.

This means that there is no such thing as a genuinely unpayable
debt. If there was no conceivable way to salvage the situation, we

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wouldn't be calling it a "debt." Even the French villager could, con-
ceivably, save his patron's life, or win the lottery and buy the factory.
Even when we speak of a criminal "paying his debt to society," we are
saying that he has done something so terrible that he has now been
banished from that equal status under the law that belongs by natural
right to any citizen of his country; however, we call it a "debt" because
it can be paid, equality can be restored, even if the cost may be death
by lethal injection.

During the time that the debt remains unpaid, the logic of hierar-
chy takes hold. There is no reciprocity. As anyone who has ever been
in jail knows, the first thing the jailors communicate is that nothing
that happens in jail has anything to do with justice. Similarly, debtor
and creditor confront each other like a peasant before a feudal lord.
The law of precedent takes hold. If you bring your creditor tomatoes
from the garden, it never occurs to you that he would give something
back. He might expect you to do it again, though. But always there is
the assumption that the situation is somewhat unnatural, because the
debt really ought to be paid.

This is what makes situations of effectively unpayable debt so dif-
ficult and so painful. Since creditor and debtor are ultimately equals, if
the debtor cannot do what it takes to restore herself to equality, there
is obviously something wrong with her; it must be her fault.

This connection becomes clear if we look at the etymology of com-
mon words for "debt" in European languages. Many are synonyms for
"fault," "sin," or "guilt;" just as a criminal owes a debt to society, a
debtor is always a sort of criminal.59 In ancient Crete, according to Plu-
tarch, it was the custom for those taking loans to pretend to snatch the
money from the lender's purse. Why, he wondered? Probably "so that,
if they default, they could be charged with violence and punished all
the more."60 This is why in so many periods of history insolvent debt-
ors could be jailed, or even — as in early Republican Rome — executed.

A debt, then, is just an exchange that has not been brought to
completion.

It follows that debt is strictly a creature of reciprocity and has little
to do with other sorts of morality (communism, with its needs and
abilities; hierarchy, with its customs and qualities). True, if we were
really determined, we could argue (as some do) that communism is a
condition of permanent mutual indebtedness, or that hierarchy is con-
structed out of unpayable debts. But isn't this just the same old story,
starting from the assumption that all human interactions must be, by
definition, forms of exchange, and then performing whatever mental
somersaults are required to prove it?

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No. All human interactions are not forms of exchange. Only some
are. Exchange encourages a particular way of conceiving human rela-
tions. This is because exchange implies equality, but it also implies
separation. It's precisely when the money changes hands, when the
debt is cancelled, that equality is restored and both parties can walk
away and have nothing further to do with each other.

Debt is what happens in between: when the two parties cannot
yet walk away from each other, because they are not yet equal. But
it is carried out in the shadow of eventual equality. Because achieving
that equality, however, destroys the very reason for having a relation-
ship, just about everything interesting happens in between.61 In fact,
just about everything human happens in between — even if this means
that all such human relations bear with them at least a tiny element of
criminality, guilt, or shame.

For the Tiv women whom I mentioned earlier in the chapter, this
wasn't much of a problem. By ensuring that everyone was always
slightly in debt to one another, they actually created human society, if
a very fragile sort of society — a delicate web made up of obligations to
return three eggs or a bag of okra, ties renewed and recreated, as any
one of them could be cancelled out at any time.

Our own habits of civility are not so very different. Consider the
custom, in American society, of constantly saying "please" and "thank
you." To do so is often treated as basic morality: we are constantly
chiding children for forgetting to do it, just as the moral guardians
of our society — teachers and ministers, for instance — do to everybody
else. We often assume that the habit is universal, but as the Inuit hunter
made clear, it is not.62 Like so many of our everyday courtesies, it is a
kind of democratization of what was once a habit of feudal deference:
the insistence on treating absolutely everyone the way that one used
only to have to treat a lord or similar hierarchical superior.

Perhaps this is not so in every case. Imagine we are on a crowded
bus, looking for a seat. A fellow passenger moves her bag aside to clear
one; we smile, or nod, or make some other little gesture of acknowl-
edgment. Or perhaps we actually say "Thank you." Such a gesture
is simply a recognition of common humanity: we are acknowledging
that the woman who had been blocking the seat is not a mere physical
obstacle but a human being, and that we feel genuine gratitude toward
someone we will likely never see again. None of this is generally true
when one asks someone across the table to "please pass the salt," or
when the postman thanks you for signing for a delivery. We think of
these simultaneously as meaningless formalities and as the very moral
basis of society. Their apparent unimportance can be measured by the

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fact that almost no one would refuse, on principle, to say "please" or
"thank you" in just about any situation — even those who might find it
almost impossible to say "I'm sorry" or "I apologize."

In fact, the English "please" is short for "if you please," "if it
pleases you to do this" — it is the same in most European languages
(French si il vous plait, Spanish por favor). Its literal meaning is "you
are under no obligation to do this." "Hand me the salt. Not that I am
saying that you have to!" This is not true; there is a social obligation,
and it would be almost impossible not to comply. But etiquette largely
consists of the exchange of polite fictions (to use less polite language,
lies). When you ask someone to pass the salt, you are also giving them
an order; by attaching the word "please," you are saying that it is not
an order. But, in fact, it is.

In English, "thank you" derives from "think," it originally meant,
"I will remember what you did for me" — which is usually not true
either — but in other languages (the Portuguese obrigado is a good
example) the standard term follows the form of the English "much
obliged" — it actually does means "I am in your debt." The French
merci is even more graphic: it derives from "mercy," as in begging for
mercy; by saying it you are symbolically placing yourself in your bene-
factor's power — since a debtor is, after all, a criminal.63 Saying "you're
welcome," or "it's nothing" (French de rien, Spanish de nada) — the
latter has at least the advantage of often being literally true — is a way
of reassuring the one to whom one has passed the salt that you are not
actually inscribing a debit in your imaginary moral account book. So is
saying "my pleasure" — you are saying, "No, actually, it's a credit, not
a debit — you did me a favor because in asking me to pass the salt, you
gave me the opportunity to do something I found rewarding in itself!"64

Decoding the tacit calculus of debt ("I owe you one," "No, you
don't owe me anything," "Actually, if anything, it's me who owes you,"
as if inscribing and then scratching off so many infinitesimal entries in
an endless ledger) makes it easy to understand why this sort of thing
is often viewed not as the quintessence of morality, but as the quintes-
sence of middle-class morality. True, by now middle-class sensibilities
dominate society. But there are still those who find the practice odd.
Those at the very top of society often still feel that deference is owed
primarily to hierarchical superiors and find it slightly idiotic to watch
postmen and pastry cooks taking turns pretending to treat each other
like little feudal lords. At the other extreme, those who grew up in
what in Europe are called "popular" environments — small towns, poor
neighborhoods, anyplace where there is still an assumption that people
who are not enemies will, ordinarily, take care of one another — will

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often find it insulting to be constantly told, in effect, that there is some
chance they might not do their job as a waiter or taxi driver correctly,
or provide houseguests with tea. In other words, middle-class etiquette
insists that we are all equals, but it does so in a very particular way. On
the one hand, it pretends that nobody is giving anybody orders (think
here of the burly security guard at the mall who appears before someone
walking into a restricted area and says, "Can I help you?"); on the other,
it treats every gesture of what I've been calling "baseline communism" as
if it were really a form of exchange. As a result, like Tiv neighborhoods,
middle-class society has to be endlessly recreated, as a kind of constant
flickering game of shadows, the criss-crossing of an infinity of momen-
tary debt relations, each one almost instantly cancelled out.

All of this is a relatively recent innovation. The habit of always
saying "please" and "thank you" first began to take hold during the
commercial revolution of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries —
among those very middle classes who were largely responsible for it. It
is the language of bureaus, shops, and offices, and over the course of
the last five hundred years it has spread across the world along with
them. It is also merely one token of a much larger philosophy, a set
of assumptions of what humans are and what they owe one another,
that have by now become so deeply ingrained that we cannot see them.

Sometimes, at the brink of a new historical era, some prescient soul can
see the full implications of what is beginning to happen — sometimes
in a way that later generations can't. Let me end with a text by such a
person. In Paris, sometime in 1540s, Francois Rabelais — lapsed monk,
doctor, legal scholar — composed what was to become a famous mock
eulogy, which he inserted in the third book of his great Gargantua and
Pantagruel, and which came to be known as "In Praise of Debt."

Rabelais places the encomium in the mouth of one Panurge, a
wandering scholar and man of extreme classical erudition who, he ob-
serves, "knew sixty-three ways of making money — the most honorable
and most routine of which was stealing."65 The good-natured giant
Pantagruel adopts Panurge and even provides him with a respectable
income, but it bothers him that Panurge continues to spend money like
water and remains up to his ears in debt. Wouldn't it be better, Pan-
tagruel suggests, to be able to pay his creditors?

Panurge responds with horror: "God forbid that I should ever be
out of debt!" Debt is, in fact, the very basis of his philosophy:

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125

Always owe somebody something, then he will be forever pray-
ing God to grant you a good, long and blessed life. Fearing to
lose what you owe him, he will always be saying good things
about you in every sort of company; he will be constantly ac-
quiring new lenders for you, so that you can borrow to pay
him back, filling his ditch with other men's spoil.66

Above all else, they will always be praying that you come into
money. It's like those ancient slaves destined to be sacrificed at their
masters' funerals. When they wished their master long life and good
health, they genuinely meant it! What's more, debt can make you into a
kind of god, who can make something (money, well-wishing creditors)
out of absolutely nothing.

Worse still: I give myself to bonnie Saint Bobelin if all my life
I have not reckoned debts to be, as it were, a connection and
colligation between Heaven and Earth (uniquely preserving the
lineage of Man without which, I say, all human beings would
soon perish) and perhaps to be that great World Soul which,
according to the Academics, gives life to all things.

That it really is so, evoke tranquilly in your mind the Idea
and Form of a world — take if you like the thirtieth of the
worlds imagined by Metrodorus — in which there were no debt-
ors or lenders at all. A universe sans debts! Amongst the heav-
enly bodies there would be no regular course whatsoever: all
would be in disarray. Jupiter, reckoning that he owed no debt
to Saturn, would dispossess him of his sphere, and with his Ho-
meric chain hold in suspension all the Intelligences, gods, heav-
ens, daemons, geniuses, heroes, devils, earth, sea and all the
elements . . . The Moon would remain dark and bloody; why
should the Sun share his light with her? He is under no obliga-
tion. The Sun would never shine on their Earth; the heavenly
bodies would pour no good influences down upon it.

Between the elements there will be no mutual sharing of
qualities, no alternation, no transmutation whatsoever, one
will not think itself obliged to the other; it has lent it nothing.
From earth no longer will water be made, nor water trans-
muted into air; from air fire will not be made, and fire will not
warm the earth. Earth will bring forth nothing but monsters,
Titans, giants. The rain will not rain, the light will shed no
light, the wind will not blow, and there will be no summer, no
autumn, Lucifer will tear off his bonds and, sallying forth from
deepest Hell with the Furies, the Vengeances and the horned

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devils, will seek to turf the gods of both the greater and lesser
nations out from their nests in the heavens.

And what's more, if human beings owed nothing to one another,
life would "be no better than a dog-fight" — a mere unruly brawl.

Amongst human beings none will save another; it will be no
good a man shouting Help! Fire! I'm drowning! Murder! No-
body will come and help him. Why? Because he has lent noth-
ing: and no one owes him anything. No one has anything to
lose by his fire, his shipwreck, his fall, or his death. He has lent
nothing. And: he would lend nothing either hereafter.

In short, Faith, Hope and Charity would be banished from
this world.

Panurge — a man without a family, alone, whose entire calling in
life was getting large amounts of money and then spending it — serves
as a fitting prophet for the world that was just beginning to emerge.
His perspective of course is that of a wealthy debtor — not one liable
to be trundled off to some pestiferous dungeon for failure to pay. Still,
what he is describing is the logical conclusion, the reductio ad absur-
dum, which Rabelais as always lays out with cheerful perversity, of the
assumptions about the world as exchange slumbering behind all our
pleasant bourgeois formalities (which Rabelais himself, incidentally,
detested — the book is basically a mixture of classical erudition and
dirty jokes).

And what he says is true. If we insist on defining all human interac-
tions as matters of people giving one thing for another, then any ongo-
ing human relations can only take the form of debts. Without them,
no one would owe anything to anybody. A world without debt would
revert to primordial chaos, a war of all against all; no one would feel
the slightest responsibility for one another; the simple fact of being hu-
man would have no significance; we would all become isolated planets
who couldn't even be counted on to maintain our proper orbits.

Pantagruel will have none of it. His own feelings on the matter, he
says, can be summed up with one line from the Apostle Paul: "Owe
no man anything, save mutual love and affection."67 Then, in an ap-
propriately biblical gesture, he declares, "From your past debts I shall
free you."

"What can I do but thank you?" Panurge replies.

Chapter Six

GAMES WITH SEX AND DEATH

WHEN WE RETURN to an examination of conventional economic
history, one thing that jumps out is how much has been made to dis-
appear. Reducing all human life to exchange means not only shunting
aside all other forms of economic experience (hierarchy, communism),
but also ensuring that the vast majority of the human race who are
not adult males, and therefore whose day-to-day existence is relatively
difficult to reduce to a matter of swapping things in such a way as to
seek mutual advantage, melt away into the background.

As a result, we end up with a sanitized view of the way actual
business is conducted. The tidy world of shops and malls is the quintes-
sential middle-class environment, but at either the top or the bottom of
the system, the world of financiers or of gangsters, deals are often made
in ways not so completely different from ways that the Gunwinggu or
Nambikwara make them — at least in that sex, drugs, music, extrava-
gant displays of food, and the potential for violence do often play parts.

Consider the case of Neil Bush (George W.'s brother) who, during
divorce proceedings with his wife, admitted to multiple infidelities with
women who, he claimed, would mysteriously appear at his hotel-room
door after important business meetings in Thailand and Hong Kong.

"You have to admit it's pretty remarkable," remarked one of
his wife's attorneys, "for a man to go to a hotel-room door
and open it and have a woman standing there and have sex
with her."

"It was very unusual," Bush replied, admitting however that
this had happened to him on numerous occasions.
"Were they prostitutes?"
"I don't know.'"

In fact, such things seem almost par for the course when really big
money comes into play.

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In this light, the economists' insistence that economic life begins
with barter, the innocent exchange of arrows for teepee frames, with
no one in a position to rape, humiliate, or torture anyone else, and that
it continues in this way, is touchingly Utopian.

As a result, though, the histories we tell are full of blank spaces,
and the women in them seem to appear out of nowhere, without ex-
planation, much like the Thai women who appeared at Bush's door.
Recall the passage cited in Chapter Three, from numismatist Philip
Grierson, about money in the barbarian law codes:

Compensation in the Welsh laws is reckoned primarily in cattle
and in the Irish ones in cattle or bondmaids (cumal), with con-
siderable use of precious metals in both. In the Germanic codes
it is mainly in precious metal . . }

How is it possible to read this passage without immediately stop-
ping at the end of the first line? "Bondmaids"? Doesn't that mean
"slaves?" (It does.) In ancient Ireland, female slaves were so plentiful
and important that they came to function as currency. How did that
happen? And if we are trying to understand the origins of money,
here, isn't the fact that people are using one another as currency at all
interesting or significant?3 Yet none of the sources on money remark
much on it. It would seem that by the time of the law codes, slave girls
were not actually traded, but just used as units of account. Still, they
must have been traded at some point. Who were they? How were they
enslaved? Were they captured in war, sold by their parents, or reduced
to slavery through debt? Were they a major trade item? The answer
to all these questions would seem to be yes, but it's hard to say more
because the history remains largely unwritten.4

Or let's return to the parable of the ungrateful servant. "Since he
was not able to pay, the master ordered that he and his wife and his
children and all that he had be sold to repay the debt." How did that
happen? Note that we're not even speaking of debt service here (he is
already his creditor's servant), but outright slavery. How did a man's
wife and children come to be considered no different than his sheep
and crockery — as property to be liquidated on the occasion of default?
Was it normal for a man in first-century Palestine to be able to sell his
wife? (It wasn't.)5 If he didn't own her, why was someone else allowed
to sell her if he couldn't pay his debts?

The same could be asked of the story in Nehemiah. It's hard not
to empathize with the distress of a father watching his daughter taken

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129

off by strangers. On the other hand, one might also ask: Why weren't
they taking him? The daughter hadn't borrowed any money.

It's not as if it is ordinary for fathers in traditional societies to be
able to sell their children. This is a practice with a very specific his-
tory: it appears in the great agrarian civilizations, from Sumer to Rome
to China, right around the time when we also start to see evidence
of money, markets, and interest-bearing loans; later, more gradually,
it also appears in those surrounding hinterlands that supplied those
civilizations with slaves.6 What's more, if we examine the historical
evidence, there seems good reason to believe that the very obsession
with patriarchal honor that so defines "tradition" in the Middle East
and Mediterranean world itself arose alongside the father's power to
alienate his children — as a reaction to what were seen as the moral per-
ils of the market. All of this is treated as somehow outside the bounds
of economic history.

Excluding all this is deceptive not only because it excludes the main
purposes to which money was actually put in the past, but because it
doesn't give us a clear vision of the present. After all, who were those
Thai women who so mysteriously appeared at Neil Bush's hotel door?
Almost certainly, they were children of indebted parents. Likely as not,
they were contractual debt peons themselves.7

Focusing on the sex industry would be deceptive, though. Then as
now, most women in debt bondage spend the vast majority of their
time sewing, preparing soups, and scouring latrines. Even in the Bible,
the admonition in the Ten Commandments not to "covet thy neighbor's
wife" clearly referred not to lust in one's heart (adultery had already
been covered in commandment number seven), but to the prospect
of taking her as a debt-peon — in other words, as a servant to sweep
one's yard and hang out the laundry.8 In most such matters, sexual
exploitation was at best incidental (usually illegal, sometimes practiced
anyway, symbolically important.) Again, once we remove some of our
usual blinders, we can see that matters have changed far less, over the
course of the last five thousand years or so, than we really like to think.

These blinders are all the more ironic when one looks at the anthro-
pological literature on what used to be called "primitive money" —
that is, the sort one encounters in places where there are no states or
markets — whether Iroquois wampum, African cloth money, or Solo-
mon Island feather money, and discovers that such money is used

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almost exclusively for the kinds of transactions that economists don't
like to have to talk about.

In fact, the term "primitive money" is deceptive for this very rea-
son, since it suggests that we are dealing with a crude version of the
kind of currencies we use today. But this is precisely what we don't
find. Often, such currencies are never used to buy and sell anything
at all.9 Instead, they are used to create, maintain, and otherwise reor-
ganize relations between people: to arrange marriages, establish the
paternity of children, head off feuds, console mourners at funerals, seek
forgiveness in the case of crimes, negotiate treaties, acquire followers —
almost anything but trade in yams, shovels, pigs, or jewelry.

Often, these currencies were extremely important, so much so that
social life itself might be said to revolve around getting and disposing
of the stuff. Clearly, though, they mark a totally different conception
of what money, or indeed an economy, is actually about. I've decided
therefore to refer to them as "social currencies," and the economies
that employ them as "human economies." By this I mean not that these
societies are necessarily in any way more humane (some are quite hu-
mane; others extraordinarily brutal), but only that they are economic
systems primarily concerned not with the accumulation of wealth, but
with the creation, destruction, and rearranging of human beings.

Historically, commercial economies — market economies, as we
now like to call them — are a relative newcomer. For most of human
history, human economies predominated. To even begin to write a
genuine history of debt, then, we have to start by asking: What sort of
debts, what sort of credits and debits, do people accumulate in human
economies? And what happens when human economies begin to give
away to or are taken over by commercial ones? This is another way of
asking the question, "How do mere obligations turn into debts?" — but
it means not just asking the question in the abstract, but examining the
historical record to try to reconstruct what actually did happen.

This is what I will do over the course of the next two chapters.
First I will look at the role of money in human economies, then de-
scribe what can happen when human economies are suddenly incorpo-
rated into the economic orbits of larger, commercial ones. The African
slave trade will serve as a particularly catastrophic case in point. Then,
in the next chapter, I will return to the first emergence of commercial
economies in early civilizations of Europe and the Middle East.

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131

Money as Inadequate Substitute

The most interesting theory of the origin of money is the one recent-
ly put forward by a French economist-turned-anthropologist named
Philippe Rospabe. While his work is largely unknown in the English-
speaking world, it's quite ingenious, and it bears directly on our prob-
lem. Rospabe's argument is that "primitive money" was not originally
a way to pay debts of any sort. It's a way of recognizing the existence
of debts that cannot possibly be paid. His argument is worth consider-
ing in detail.

In most human economies, money is used first and foremost to
arrange marriages. The simplest and probably most common way of
doing this was by being presented as what used to be called "bride-
price": a suitor's family would deliver a certain number of dog teeth,
or cowries, or brass rings, or whatever is the local social currency, to
a woman's family, and they would present their daughter as his bride.
It's easy to see why this might be interpreted as buying a women, and
many colonial officials in Africa and Oceania in the early part of the
twentieth century did indeed come to that conclusion. The practice
caused something of a scandal, and by 1926, the League of Nations was
debating banning the practice as a form of slavery. Anthropologists
objected. Really, they explained, this was nothing like the purchase of,
say, an ox — let alone a pair of sandals. After all, if you buy an ox, you
don't have any responsibilities to the ox. What you are really buying
is the right to dispose of the ox in any way that pleases you. Marriage
is entirely different, since a husband will normally have just as many
responsibilities toward his wife as his wife will have toward him. It's a
way of rearranging relations between people. Second of all, if you were
really buying a wife, you'd be able to sell her. Finally, the real signifi-
cance of the payment concerns the status of the woman's children: if
he's buying anything, it's the right to call her offspring his own.10

The anthropologists ended up winning the argument, and "bride-
price" was dutifully redubbed "bridewealth." But they never really an-
swered the question: What is actually happening here? When a Fijian
suitor's family presents a whale tooth to ask for a woman's hand in
marriage, is this an advance payment for the services the woman will
provide in cultivating her future husband's gardens? Or is he purchas-
ing the future fertility of her womb? Or is this a pure formality, the
equivalent of the dollar that has to change hands in order to seal a . con-
tract? According to Rospabe, it's none of these. The whale tooth, how-
ever valuable, is not a form of payment. It is really an acknowledgment

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that one is asking for something so uniquely valuable that'payment of
any sort would be impossible. The only appropriate payment for the
gift of a woman is the gift of another woman; in the meantime, all one
can do is to acknowledge the outstanding debt.

There are places where suitors say this quite explicitly. Consider the
Tiv of Central Nigeria, who we have already met briefly in the last
chapter. Most of our information on the Tiv comes from mid-century,
when they were still under British colonial rule.11 Everyone at that time
insisted that a proper marriage should take the form of an exchange
of sisters. One man gives his sister in marriage to another, that man
marries the sister of his newfound brother-in-law. This is the perfect
marriage because the only thing one can really give in exchange for a
woman is another woman,.

Obviously, even if every family had exactly equal numbers of
brothers and sisters, things couldn't always work this neatly. Say I
marry your sister but you don't want to marry mine (because, say,
you don't like her, or because she's only five years old). In that case,
you become her "guardian," which means you can claim the right to
dispose of her in marriage to someone else — for instance, someone
whose sister you actually do wish to marry. This system quickly grew
into a complex system in which most important men became guard-
ians of numerous "wards," often scattered over wide areas; they would
swap and trade them and in the process accumulate numerous wives
for themselves, while less-fortunate men were only able to marry late
in life, or not at all.12

There was one other expedient. The Tiv at that time used bundles
of brass rods as their most prestigious form of currency. Brass rods
were only held by men, and never used to buy things in markets (mar-
kets were dominated by women); instead, they were exchanged only
for things that men considered of higher importance: cattle, horses,
ivory, ritual titles, medical treatment, magical charms. It was possible,
as one Tiv ethnographer, Akiga Sai, explains, to acquire a wife with
brass rods, but it required quite a lot of them. You would need to give
two or three bundles of them to her parents to establish yourself as a
suitor; then, when you did finally make off with her (such marriages
were always first framed as elopements), another few bundles to as-
suage her mother when she showed up angrily demanding to know
what was going on. This would normally be followed by five more
to get her guardian to at least temporarily accept the situation, and

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133

more still to her parents when she gave birth, if you were to have any
chance of their accepting your claims to be the father of her children.
That might get her parents off your back, but you'd have to pay off the
guardian forever, because you could never really use money to acquire
the rights to a woman. Everyone knew that the only thing you can
legitimately give in exchange for a woman is another woman. In this
case, everyone has to abide by the pretext that a woman will someday
be forthcoming. In the meantime, as one ethnographer succinctly puts
it, "the debt can never be fully paid."13

According to Rospabe, the Tiv are just making explicit the un-
derlying logic of bridewealth everywhere. The suitor presenting bride-
wealth is never paying for a woman, or even for the rights to claim her
children. That would imply that brass rods, or whale's teeth, cowrie
shells, or even cattle are somehow the equivalent of a human being,
which by the logic of a human economy is obviously absurd. Only a
human could ever be considered equivalent to another human. All the
more so since, in the case of marriage, we are speaking of something
even more valuable than one human life: we are speaking of a human
life that also has the capacity to generate new lives.

Certainly, many of those who pay bridewealth are, like the Tiv,
quite explicit about all this. Bridewealth money is presented not to
settle a debt, but as a kind of acknowledgment that there exists a
debt that cannot be settled by means of money. Often the two sides
will maintain at least the polite fiction that there will, someday, be a
recompense in kind: that the suitor's clan will eventually provide one
of its own women, perhaps even that very woman's daughter or grand-
daughter, to marry a man of the wife's natal clan. Or maybe there will
be some arrangement about the disposition of her children; perhaps her
clan will get to keep one for itself. The possibilities are endless.

Money, then, begins, as Rospabe himself puts it, "as a substitute for
life."14 One might call it the recognition of a life-debt. This, in turn, ex-
plains why it's invariably the exact same kind of money that's used to
arrange marriages that is also used to pay wergeld (or "bloodwealth"
as it's sometimes also called): money presented to the family of a mur-
der victim so as to prevent or resolve a blood-feud. Here the sources
are even more explicit. On the one hand, one presents whale teeth or
brass rods because the murderer's kin recognize they owe a life to the
victim's family. On the other, whale teeth or brass rods are in no sense,
and can never be, compensation for the loss of a murdered relative.

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DEBT

Certainly no one presenting such compensation would ever be foolish
enough to suggest that any amount of money could possibly be the
"equivalent" to the value of someone's father, sister, or child.

So here again, money is first and foremost an acknowledgment that
one owes something much more valuable than money.

In the case of a blood-feud, both parties will also be aware that
even a revenge killing, while at least it conforms to the principle of a
life for a life, won't really compensate for the victim's grief and pain
either. This knowledge allows for some possibility of settling the mat-
ter without violence. But even here, there is often a feeling that, as in
the case of marriage, the real solution to the problem is simply being
temporarily postponed.

An illustration might be helpful. Among the Nuer, there is a special
class of priestly figures who specialize in mediating feuds, referred to in
the literature as "leopard-skin chiefs." If one man murders another, he
will immediately seek out one of their homesteads, since such a home-
stead is treated as an inviolate sanctuary: even the dead man's family,
who will be honor-bound to avenge the murder, will know that they
cannot enter it, lest terrible consequences ensue. According to Evans-
Pritchard's classic account, the chief will immediately start trying to
negotiate a settlement between the murderer and victim's families, a
delicate business, because the victim's family will always first refuse:

The chief first finds out what cattle the slayer's people possess
and what they are prepared to pay in compensation. ... He
then visits the dead man's people and asks them to accept cattle
for the life. They usually refuse, for it is a point of honor to be
obstinate, but their refusal does not mean that they are unwill-
ing to accept compensation. The chief knows this and insists
on their acceptance, even threatening to curse them if they do
not give way . . .'5

More-distant kin weigh in, reminding everyone of their responsi-
bility to the larger community, of all the trouble that an outstanding
feud will cause to innocent relatives, and after a great show of holding
out, insisting that it is insulting to suggest that any number of cattle
could possibly substitute for the life of a son or brother, they will usu-
ally grudgingly accept.16 In fact, even once the matter has technically
been settled, it really hasn't — it usually takes years to assemble the
cattle, and even once they have been paid, the two sides will avoid
each other, "especially at dances, for in the excitement they engender,
merely bumping into a man whose kinsman has been slain may cause

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135

a fight to break out, because the'offense is never forgiven and the score
must finally be paid with a life."17

So it's much the same as with bridewealth. Money does not wipe
out the debt. One life can only be paid for with another. At best those
paying bloodwealth, by admitting the existence of the debt and insist-
ing that they wish they could pay it, even though they know this is
impossible, can allow the matter to be placed permanently on hold.

Halfway around the world, one finds Lewis Henry Morgan de-
scribing the elaborate mechanisms set up by the Six Nations of the
Iroquois to avoid precisely this state of affairs. In the event one man
killed another,

Immediately on the commission of a murder, the affair was
taken up by the tribes to which the parties belonged, and stren-
uous efforts were made to effect a reconciliation, lest private
retaliation should lead to disastrous consequences.

The first council ascertained whether the offender was will-
ing to confess his crime, and to make atonement. If he was,
the council immediately sent a belt of white wampum, in his
name, to the other council, which contained a message to that
effect. The latter then endeavored to pacify the family of the
deceased, to quiet their excitement, and to induce them to ac-
cept the wampum as condonation.18

Much as in the case of the Nuer, there were complicated schedules
of exactly how many fathoms of wampum were paid over, depending
on the status of the victim and the nature of the crime. As with the
Nuer, too, everyone insisted that this was not payment. The value of
the wampum in no sense represented the value of the dead man's life:

The present of white wampum was not in the nature of a
compensation for the life of the deceased, but of a regretful
confession of the crime, with a petition for forgiveness. It was a
peace-offering, the acceptance of which was pressed by mutual
friends ..."

Actually, in many cases there was also some way to manipulate
the system to turn payments meant to assuage one's rage and grief into
ways of creating a new life that would in some sense substitute for the
one that was lost. Among the Nuer, forty cattle were set as the stan-
dard fee for bloodwealth. But it was also the standard rate of bride-
wealth. The logic was this: if a man had been murdered before he was

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able to marry and produce offspring, it's only natural that his spirit
would be angry. He had been, effectively, robbed of his eternity. The
best solution would be to use the cattle paid in settlement to acquire
what was called a "ghost-wife": a woman who would then be formally
married to the dead man. In practice, she was usually paired off with
one of the victim's brothers, but this was not particularly important;
it didn't really matter too much who impregnated her, since he would
be in no sense the father of her children. Her children would be con-
sidered the children of the victim's ghost — and as a result, any boys
among them were seen as having been born with a particular commit-
ment to someday avenge his death.20

This latter is unusual. But Nuer appear to have been unusually
stubborn about feuds. Rospabe provides examples from other parts of
the world that are even more telling. Among North African Bedouins,
for instance, it sometimes happened that the only way to settle a feud
was for the killer's family to turn over a daughter, who would then
marry the victim's next of kin — his brother, say. If she bore him a male
child, the boy was given the same name as his dead uncle and consid-
ered to be, at least in the broadest sense, a substitute for him.21 The
Iroquois, who traced descent in the female line, did not trade women
in this fashion. However, they had another, more direct approach. If a
man died — even of natural causes — his wife's relatives might "put his
name upon the mat," sending off belts of wampum to commission a
war party, which would then raid an enemy village to secure a captive.
The captive could either be killed, or, if the clan matrons were in a
benevolent mood (one could never tell; the grief of mourning is tricky),
adopted: this was signified by throwing a belt of wampum around his
shoulders, whereon he would be given the name of the deceased and
be considered, from that moment on, married to the victim's wife, the
owner of his personal possessions, and in every way, effectively, the
exact same person as the dead man used to be.22

All of this merely serves to underline Rospabe's basic point, which
is that money can be seen, in human economies, as first and foremost
the acknowledgment of the existence of a debt that cannot be paid.

In a way, it's all very reminiscent of primordial-debt theory: money
emerges from the recognition of an absolute debt to that which has
given you life. The difference is that instead of imagining such debts
as between an individual and society, or perhaps the cosmos, here they
are imagined as a kind of network of dyadic relations: almost everyone
in such societies was in a relation of absolute debt to someone else. It's
not that we owe "society." If there is any notion of "society" here — and
it's not clear that there is — society is our debts.

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137

Blood Debts (Lele)

Obviously, this leads us to the same familiar problem: How does a
token of recognition that one cannot pay a debt turn into a form of
payment by which a debt can be extinguished? If anything, the problem
seems even worse than it was before.

In fact, it isn't. The African evidence clearly shows how such things
can happen — though the answer is a bit unsettling. To demonstrate
this, it will be necessary to look at one or two African societies with a
closer focus.

I'll start with the Lele, an African people who had, at the time that
Mary Douglas studied them in the 1950s, managed to turn the principle
of blood debts into the organizing principle of their entire society.

The Lele were, at that time, a group of perhaps ten thousand
souls, living on a stretch of rolling country near the Kasai River in the
Belgian Congo, and considered a rude backcountry folk by their richer
and more cosmopolitan neighbors, the Kuba and Bushong. Lele women
grew maize and manioc; the men thought of themselves as intrepid
hunters but spent most of their time weaving and sewing raffia-palm
cloth. This cloth was what the area was really known for. It was not
only used for every sort of clothing, but also exported: the Lele consid-
ered themselves the clothiers of the region, and it was traded with sur-
rounding people to acquire luxuries. Internally, it functioned as a sort
of currency. Still, it was not used in markets (there were no markets),
and, as Mary Douglas discovered to her great inconvenience, within a
village, one couldn't use it to acquire food, tools, tableware, or really
much of anything.11 It was the quintessential social currency.

Informal gifts of raffia cloth smooth all social relations: hus-
band to wife, son to mother, son to father. They resolve oc-
casions of tension, as peace-offerings; they make parting gifts,
or convey congratulations. There are also formal gifts of raffia
which are neglected only at risk of rupture of the social ties in-
volved. A man, on reaching adulthood, should give 20 cloths to
his father. Otherwise he would be ashamed to ask his father's
help for raising his marriage dues. A man should give 20 cloths
to his wife on each delivery of a child . . .24

Cloth was also used for various fines and fees, and to pay curers.
So for instance, if a man's wife reported a would-be seducer, it was
customary to reward her with 20 cloths for her fidelity (it was not

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required, but not doing so was considered decidedly unwise); if an
adulterer was caught, he was expected to pay 50 or 100 cloths to the
woman's husband; if the husband and lover disturbed the peace of the
village by fighting before the matter was settled, each would have to
pay two in compensation, and so forth.

Gifts tended to flow upward. Young people were always giving
little presents of cloth as marks of respect to fathers, mothers, uncles,
and the like. These gifts were hierarchical in nature: that is, it never
occurred to those receiving them that they should have to reciprocate
in any way. As a result, elders, and especially elder men, usually had a
few extra pieces lying around, and young men, who could never weave
quite enough to meet their needs, would have to turn to them whenever
time for some major payment rolled around: for instance, if they had to
pay a major fine, or wished to hire a doctor to assist their wife in child-
birth, or wanted to join a cult society. They were thus always slightly
in debt, or at least slightly beholden, to their elders. But everyone also
had a whole range of friends and relatives who they had helped out,
and so could turn to for assistance.25

Marriage was particularly expensive, since the arrangements usually
required getting one's hands on several bars of camwood. If raffia cloth
was the small change of social life, camwood — a rare imported wood
used for the manufacture of cosmetics — was the high-denomination
currency. A hundred raffia cloths were equivalent to three to five bars.
Few individuals owned much in the way of camwood, usually just little
bits to grind up for their own use. Most was kept in each village's col-
lective treasury.

This is not to say that camwood was used for anything like
bridewealth — rather, it was used in marriage negotiations, in which
all sorts of gifts were passed back and forth. In fact, there was no
bridewealth. Men could not use money to acquire women; nor could
they use it to claim any rights over children. The Lele were matrilineal.
Children belonged not to their father's clan, but to their mother's.

There was another way that men gained control over women,
however.26 This was the system of blood debts.

It is a common understanding among many traditional African
peoples that human beings do not simply die without a reason. If
someone dies, someone must have killed them. If a Lele woman died
in childbirth, for example, this was assumed to be because she had
committed adultery. The adulterer was thus responsible for the death.
Sometimes she would confess on her deathbed, otherwise the facts of
the matter would have to be established through divination. It was
the same if a baby died. If someone became sick, or slipped and fell

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139

while climbing a tree, one would check to see if they had been involved
in any quarrel that could be said to have caused the misfortune. If all
else failed, one could employ magical means to identify the sorcerer.
Once the village was satisfied that a culprit had been identified, that
person owed a blood-debt: that is, he owed the victim's next of kin
a human life. The culprit would thus have to transfer over a young
woman from his family, his sister or her daughter, to be the victim's
ward, or "pawn."

As with the Tiv, the system quickly became immensely compli-
cated. Pawnship was inherited. If a woman was someone's pawn, so
would her children be, and so would her daughters' children. This
meant that most males were also considered someone else's man. Still,
no one would accept a male pawn in payment of blood-debts: the
whole point was to get hold of a young woman, who would then go
on to produce additional pawn children. Douglas's Lele informants
emphasized that any man would naturally want to have many of these
as possible:

Ask "Why do you want to have more pawns?" and they invari-
ably say, "The advantage of owning pawns is that if you incur
a blood-debt, you can settle it by paying one of your pawns,
and your own sisters remain free." Ask, "Why do you wish
your own sisters to remain free?" and they reply, "Ah! then if
I incur a blood-debt, I can settle it by giving one of them as
a pawn ..."

Every man is always aware that at any time he is liable for
a blood-debt. If any woman he has seduced confesses his name
in the throes of child-birth, and subsequently dies, or if her
child dies, or if anyone he has quarreled with dies of illness
or accident, he may be held responsible . . . Even if a woman
runs away from her husband, and fighting breaks out on her
account, the deaths will be laid at her door, and her brother
or mother's brother will have to pay up. Since only women
are accepted as blood-compensation, and since compensation
is demanded for all deaths, of men as well as of women, it is
obvious that there can never be enough to go around. Men fall
into arrears in their pawnship obligations, and girls used to be
pledged before their birth, even before their mothers were of
marriageable age.27

In other words, the whole thing turned into an endlessly complicat-
ed chess game — one reason, Douglas remarks, why the term "pawn"

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DEBT

seems singularly apropos. Just about every adult Lele male was both
someone else's pawn, and engaged in a constant game of securing,
swapping, or redeeming pawns. Every major drama or tragedy of vil-
lage life would ordinarily lead to a transfer of rights in women. Almost
all of those women would eventually get swapped again.

Several points need to be emphasized here. First of all, what were
being traded were, quite specifically, human lives. Douglas calls them
"blood-debts," but "life-debts" would be more appropriate. Say, for
instance, a man is drowning, and another man rescues him. Or say
he's deathly ill but a doctor cures him. In either case, we would likely
say one man "owes his life" to the other. So would the Lele, but they
meant it literally. Save someone's life, they owe you a life, and a life
owed had to be paid back. The usual recourse was for a man whose life
was saved to turn over his sister as a pawn — or if not that, a different
woman; a pawn he had acquired from someone else.

The second point is that nothing could substitute for a human life.
"Compensation was based on the principle of equivalence, a life for a
life, a person for a person." Since the value of a human life was abso-
lute, no amount of raffia cloth, or camwood bars, or goats, or transis-
tor radios, or anything else could possibly take its place.

The third and most important point is that in practice, "human
life" actually meant "woman's life" — or even more specifically, "young
woman's life." Ostensibly this was to maximize one's holdings: above
all, one wished for a human being who could become pregnant and
produce children, since those children would also be pawns. Still, even
Mary Douglas, who was in no sense a feminist, was forced to admit that
the whole arrangement did seem to operate as if it were one gigantic
apparatus for asserting male control over women. This was true above
all because women themselves could not own pawns.28 They could only
be pawns. In other words: when it came to life-debts, only men could
be either creditors or debtors. Young women were thus the credits and
the debits — the pieces being moved around the chessboard — while the
hands that moved them were invariably male.29

Of course, since almost everyone was a pawn, or had been at some
point in their lives, being one could not in itself be much of a tragedy.
For male pawns it was in some ways quite advantageous, since one's
"owner" had to pay most of one's fines and fees and even blood-debts.
This is why, as Douglas's informants uniformly insisted, pawnship had
nothing in common with slavery. The Lele did keep slaves, but never
very many. Slaves were war captives, usually foreigners. As such they
had no family, no one to protect them. To be a pawn, on the other
hand, meant to have not one, but two different families to look after

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141

you: you still had your own mother and her brothers, but now you also
had your "lord."

For a woman, the very fact that she was the stakes in a game that
all men were playing afforded all sorts of opportunities to game the
system. In principle, a girl might be born a pawn, assigned to some
man for eventual marriage. In practice, however,

a little Lele girl would grow up a coquette. From infancy she
was the centre of affectionate, teasing, flirting attention. Her
affianced husband never gained more than a very limited con-
trol over her . . . Since men competed with one another for
women there was scope for women to manoeuvre and intrigue.
Hopeful seducers were never lacking and no woman doubted
that she could get another husband if it suited her.30

In addition, a young Lele woman had one unique and powerful card
to play. Everyone was well aware that, if she completely refused to
countenance her situation, she always had the option of becoming a
"village-wife."31

The institution of village-wife was a peculiarly Lele one. Probably
the best way to describe it is to imagine a hypothetical case. Let us say
that an old, important man acquires a young woman as pawn through
a blood-debt, and he decides to marry her himself. Technically, he has
the right to do so, but it's no fun for a young woman to be an old
man's third or fourth wife. Or, say he decides to offer her in marriage
to one of his male pawns in a village far away from her mother and
natal home. She protests. He ignores her protestations. She waits for
an opportune moment and slips off at night to an enemy village, where
she asks for sanctuary. This is always possible: all villages have their
traditional enemies. Neither would an enemy village refuse a woman
who came to them in such a situation. They would immediately de-
clare her "wife of the village," who all men living there would then be
obliged to protect.

It helps to understand that here, as in many parts of Africa, most
older men had several wives. This meant that the pool of women avail-
able for younger men was considerably reduced. As our ethnographer
explains, the imbalance was a source of considerable sexual tension:

Everyone recognized that the young unmarried men coveted
the wives of their seniors. Indeed, one of their pastimes was to
plan seductions and the man who boasted of none was derided.
Since the old men wished to remain polygynists, with two or

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three wives, and since adulteries were thought to disrupt the
peace of the village, Lele had to make some arrangement to
appease their unmarried men.

Therefore, when a sufficient number of them reached the
age of eighteen or so, they were allowed to buy the right to a
common wife.32

After paying an appropriate fee in raffia cloth to the village treasury,
they were permitted to build a collective house, and then they were ei-
ther allotted a wife to put in it, or allowed to form a party that would
try to steal one from a rival village. (Or, alternately, if one showed
up as a refugee, they would ask the rest of the village for the right to
accept her: this was invariably granted.) This common wife is what's
referred to as a "village wife." The position of village wife was more
than respectable. In fact, a newly married village wife was treated very
much like a princess. She was not expected to plant or weed in the
gardens, fetch wood or water, or even to cook; all household chores
were done by her eager young husbands, who provided the best of
everything, spending much of their time hunting in the forest vying
to bring her the choicest delicacies, or plying her with palm wine. She
could help herself to others' possessions and was expected to make all
sorts of mischief to the bemused indulgence of all concerned. She was
also expected to make herself sexually available to all members of the
age-set — perhaps ten or twelve different men — at first, pretty much
whenever they wanted her.33

Over time, a village wife would usually settle down with just three
or four of her husbands, and finally, just one. The domestic arrange-
ments were flexible. Nonetheless, in principle, she was married to the
village as a whole. If she had children, the village was considered to
be their father, and as such expected to bring them up, provide them
with resources, and eventually, get them properly married off — which
is why villages had to maintain collective treasuries full of raffia and
camwood bars in the first place. Since at any time a village was likely
to have several village wives, it would also have its own children and
grandchildren, and therefore be in a position to both demand and pay
blood-debts, and thus, to accumulate pawns.

As a result, villages became corporate bodies, collective groups
that, like modern corporations, had to be treated as if they were indi-
viduals for purposes of law. However there was one key difference. Un-
like ordinary individuals, villages could back up their claims with force.

As Douglas emphasizes, this was crucial, because ordinary Lele
men were simply not able to do this to one another.34 In everyday

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143

affairs, there was an almost complete lack of any systematic means of
coercion. This was the main reason, she notes, that pawnship was so
innocuous. There were all sorts of rules, but with no government, no
courts, no judges to make authoritative decisions, no group of armed
men willing or able to employ the threat of force to back those deci-
sions up, rules were there to be adjusted and interpreted. In the end,
everyone's feelings had to be taken into account. In everyday affairs,
Lele put great stock on gentle and agreeable behavior. Men might have
been regularly seized with the urge to throw themselves at each other in
fits of jealous rage (often they had good reason to), but they very rarely
did. And if a fight did break out, everyone would immediately jump in
to break it up and submit the affair to public mediation.'5

Villages, in contrast, were fortified, and age-sets could be mobilized
to act as military units. Here, and only here, did organized violence
enter the picture. True, when villages fought, it was also always over
women (everyone Douglas talked to expressed incredulity at the very
idea that grown men, anywhere, could ever come to blows over any-
thing else). But in the case of villages, it could come to an actual war.
If another village's elders ignored one's claims to a pawn, one's young
men might organize a raiding party and kidnap her, or carry off some
other likely young women to be their collective wife. This might lead
to deaths, and to further claims for compensation. "Since it had the
backing of force," Douglas observes drily, "the village could afford to
be less conciliatory towards the wishes of its pawns."36

It's at exactly this point, too, where the potential for violence
enters, that the great wall constructed between the value of lives and
money can suddenly come tumbling down.

Sometimes when two clans were disputing a claim to blood
compensation, the claimant might see no hope of getting sat-
isfaction from his opponents. The political system offered no
direct means for one man (or clan) to use physical coercion or
to resort to superior authority to enforce claims against an-
other. In such a case, rather than abandon his claim to a pawn-
woman, he would be ready to take the equivalent in wealth, if
he could get it. The usual procedure was to sell his case against
the defendants to the only group capable of extorting a pawn
by force, that is, to a village.

The man who meant to sell his case to a village asked them
for 100 raffia cloths or five bars of camwood. The village raised
the amount, either from its treasury, or by a loan from one

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DEBT

of its members, and thereby adopted as its own his claim to
a pawn.37

Once he held the money, his claim was over, and the village, which had
now bought it, would proceed to organize a raid to seize the woman
in dispute.

In other words, it was only when violence was brought into the
equation that there was any question of buying and selling people. The
ability to deploy force, to cut through the endless maze of preferences,
obligations, expectations, and responsibilities that mark real human
relationships, also made it possible to overcome what is otherwise the
first rule of all Lele economic relationships: that human lives can only
be exchanged for other human lives, and never for physical objects.
Significantly, the amount paid — a hundred cloths, or an equivalent
amount of camwood — was also the price of a slave.38 Slaves were, as
I mentioned, war captives. There seem never to have been very many
of them; Douglas only managed to locate two descendants of slaves
in the 1950s, some twenty-five years after the practice had been abol-
ished.39 Still, the numbers were not important. The mere fact of their
existence set a precedent. The value of a human life could, sometimes,
be quantified; but if one was able to move from A = A (one life equals
another) to A = B (one life = one hundred cloths), it was only because
the equation was established at the point of a spear.

Flesh-Debt (Tiv)

I have dwelt on the Lele in such detail in part because I wanted to con-
vey some sense of why I was using the term "human economy," what
life is like inside one, what sort of dramas fill people's days, and how
money typically operates in the midst of all this. Lele currencies are,
as I say, quintessential social currencies. They are used to mark every
visit, every promise, every important moment in a man's or woman's
life. It is surely significant, too, what the objects used as currency here
actually were. Raffia cloth was used for clothing. In Douglas's day,
it was the main thing used to clothe the human body; camwood bars
were the source of a red paste that was used as a cosmetic — it was the
main substance used as makeup, by both men and women, to beautify
themselves each day. These, then, were the materials used to shape
people's physical appearance, to make them appear mature, decent, at-
tractive, and dignified to their fellows. They were what turned a mere
naked body into a proper social being.

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145

This is no coincidence. In fact, it's extraordinarily common in
what I've been calling human economies. Money almost always arises
first from objects that are used primarily as adornment of the person.
Beads, shells, feathers, dog or whale teeth, gold, and silver are all well-
known cases in point. All are useless for any purpose other than mak-
ing people look more interesting, and hence, more beautiful. The brass
rods used by the Tiv might seem an exception, but actually they're not:
they were used mainly as raw material for the manufacture of jewelry,
or simply twisted into hoops and worn at dances. There are exceptions
(cattle, for instance), but as a general rule, it's only when governments,
and then markets, enter the picture that we begin to see currencies like
barley, cheese, tobacco, or salt.40

It also illustrates the peculiar progression of ideas that so often
mark human economies. On the one hand, human life is the absolute
value. There is no possible equivalent. Whether a life is given or taken,
the debt is absolute. In places, this principle is indeed sacrosanct. More
often, it is compromised by the elaborate games played by the Tiv, who
treat the giving of lives, and the Lele, who treat the taking of lives,
as creating debts that can only be paid by delivering another human
being. In each case, too, the practice ends up engendering an extraor-
dinarily complex game in which important men end up exchanging
women, or at least, rights over their fertility.

But this is already a kind of opening. Once the game exists, once
the principle of substitution comes in, there was always the possibility
of extending it. When that begins to happen, systems of debt that were
premised on creating people can — even here — suddenly become the
means of destroying them.

As an example, let us once again return to the Tiv. The reader will
recall that if a man did not have a sister or a ward to give in exchange
for one's wife, it was possible to assuage her parents and guardians by
gifts of money. However, such a wife would never be considered truly
his. Here too, there was one dramatic exception. A man could buy a
slave, a woman kidnapped in a raid from a distant country.41 Slaves,
after all, had no parents, or could be treated as if they didn't; they had
been forcibly removed from all those networks of mutual obligation
and debt in which ordinary people acquired their outward identities.
This was why they could be bought and sold.

Once married, though, a purchased wife would quickly develop
new ties. She was no longer a slave, and her children were perfectly
legitimate — more so, in fact, than those of a wife who was merely ac-
quired through the continual payment of brass rods.

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DEBT

We have perhaps a general principle: to make something saleable,
in a human economy, one needs to first rip it from its context. That's
what slaves are: people stolen from the community that made them
what they are. As strangers to their new communities, slaves no longer
had mothers, fathers, kin of any sort. This is why they could be bought
and sold or even killed: because the only relation they had was to their
owners. A Lele village's ability to organize raids and kidnap a woman
from an alien community seems to have been the key to its ability to
start trading women for money — even if in their case, they could do so
only to a very limited extent. After all, her relatives were not very far
away, and they would surely come around demanding an explanation.
In the end, someone would have to come up with an arrangement that
everyone could live with.42

Still, I would also insist that there is something more than this.
One gets the distinct sense, in much of the literature, that many African
societies were haunted by the awareness that these elaborate networks
of debt could, if things went just slightly wrong, be transformed into
something absolutely terrible. The Tiv are a dramatic case in point.

Among students of anthropology, the Tiv are mainly famous for the
fact that their economic life was divided into what their best-known
ethnographers, Paul and Laura Bohannan, referred to as three sepa-
rate "spheres of exchange." Ordinary, everyday economic activity was
mostly the affair of women. They were the ones who filled the markets,
and who trod the paths giving and returning minor gifts of okra, nuts,
or fish. Men concerned themselves with what they considered higher
things: the kind of transactions that could be conducted using the Tiv
currency, which, as with the Lele, consisted of two denominations, a
kind of locally made cloth called tugudu, widely exported, and, for ma-
jor transactions, bundles of imported brass rods.43 These could be used
to acquire certain flashy and luxurious things (cows, purchased foreign
wives), but they were mainly for the give and take of political affairs,
hiring curers, acquiring magic, gaining initiation into cult societies. In
political matters, Tiv were even more resolutely egalitarian than the
Lele: successful old men with their numerous wives might have lorded
it over their sons and other dependants within their own house com-
pounds, but beyond that, there was no formal political organization
of any sort. Finally, there was the system of wards, which consisted
entirely of men's rights in women. Hence, the notion of "spheres." In
principle, these three levels — ordinary consumption goods, masculine

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147

prestige goods, and rights in women — were completely separate. No
amount of okra could get you a brass rod, just as, in principle, no
number of brass rods could give you full rights to a woman.

In practice, there were ways to game the system. Say a neighbor
was sponsoring a feast but was short on supplies; one might come to
his aid, then later, discreetly, ask for a bundle or two in repayment. To
be able to wheel and deal, to "turn chickens into cows," as the saying
went, and ultimately, broker one's wealth and prestige into a way of
acquiring wives, required a "strong heart" — that is, an enterprising and
charismatic personality.44 But "strong heart" had another meaning too.
There was believed to be a certain actual biological substance called
tsav that grew on the human heart. This was what gave certain people
their charm, their energy, and their powers of persuasion. Tsav there-
fore was both a physical substance and that invisible power that allows
certain people to bend others to their will.45

The problem was — and most Tiv of that time appear to have be-
lieved that this was the problem with their society — that it was also
possible to augment one's tsav through artificial means, and this could
only be accomplished by consuming human flesh.

Now, I should emphasize right away that there is no reason to be-
lieve that any Tiv actually did practice cannibalism. The idea of eating
human flesh appears to have disgusted and horrified them as much as
it would most Americans. Yet for centuries, most appear to have been
veritably obsessed by the suspicion that some of their neighbors — and
particularly prominent men who became de facto political leaders —
were, in fact, secret cannibals. Men who built up their tsav by such
means, the stories went, attained extraordinary powers: the ability to
fly, to become impervious to weapons, to be able to send out their
souls at night to kill their victims in such a way that their victims did
not even know that they were dead, but would wander about, confused
and feckless, to be harvested for their cannibal feasts. They became, in
short, terrifying witches.46

The mbatsav, or society of witches, was always looking for new
members, and the way to accomplish this was to trick people into eat-
ing human flesh. A witch would take a piece of the body of one of his
own close relatives, who he had murdered, and place it in the victim's
food. If the man was foolish enough to eat it, he would contract a
"flesh-debt," and the society of witches ensured that flesh-debts are
always paid.

Perhaps your friend, or some older man, has noticed that you
have a large number of children, or brothers and sisters, and so

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DEBT

tricks you into contracting the debt with him. He invites you
to eat food in his house alone with him, and when you begin
the meal he sets before you two dishes of sauce, one of which
contains cooked human flesh . . .

If you eat from the wrong dish, but you do not have a "strong
heart" — the potential to become a witch — you will become sick and
flee from the house in terror. But if you have that hidden potential, the
flesh will begin to work in you. That evening, you will find your house
surrounded by screeching cats and owls. Strange noises will fill the air.
Your new creditor will appear before you, backed by his confederates
in evil. He will tell of how he killed his own brother so you two could
dine together, and pretend to be tortured by the thought of having lost
his own kin as you sit there, surrounded by your plump and healthy
relatives. The other witches will concur, acting as if all this is your own
fault. "You have sought for trouble, and trouble has come upon you.
Come and lie down on the ground, that we may cut your throat."47

There's only one way out, and that's to pledge a member of your
own family as substitute. This is possible, because you will find you
have terrible new powers, but they must be used as the other witches
demand. One by one, you must kill off your brothers, sisters, children;
their bodies will be stolen from their graves by the college of witches,
brought back to life just long enough to be properly fattened, tortured,
killed again, then carved and roasted for yet another feast.

The flesh debt goes on and on. The creditor keeps on coming.
Unless the debtor has men behind him who are very strong in
tsav, he cannot free himself from the flesh debt until he has
given up all his people, and his family is finished. Then he goes
himself and lies down on the ground to be slaughtered, and so
the debt is finally discharged.48

The Slave Trade

In one sense, it's obvious what's going on here. Men with "strong
hearts" have power and charisma; using it, they can manipulate debt
to turn extra food into treasures, and treasures into wives, wards, and
daughters, and thus become the heads of ever-growing families. But
that very power and charisma that allows them to do this also makes
them run the constant danger of sending the whole process jolting back

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149

into a kind of horrific implosion, of creating flesh-debts whereby one's
family is converted back into food.

Now, if one is simply trying to imagine the worst thing that could
possibly happen to someone, surely, being forced to dine on the mu-
tilated corpses of one's own children would, anywhere, be pretty high
on the list. Still, anthropologists have come to understand, over the
years, that every society is haunted by slightly different nightmares,
and these differences are significant. Horror stories, whether about
vampires, ghouls, or flesh-eating zombies, always seem to reflect some
aspect of the tellers' own social lives, some terrifying potential, in the
way they are accustomed to interact with each other, that they do not
wish to acknowledge or confront, but also cannot help but talk about.49

In the Tiv case, what would that be? Clearly, Tiv did have a major
problem with authority. They lived in a landscape dotted with com-
pounds, each organized around a single older man with his numerous
wives, children, and assorted hangers-on. Within each compound, that
man had near-absolute authority. Outside there was no formal political
structure, and Tiv were fiercely egalitarian. In other words: all men as-
pired to become the masters of large families, but they were extremely
suspicious of any form of mastery. Hardly surprising, then, that Tiv
men were so ambivalent about the nature of power that they became
convinced that the very qualities that allow a man to rise to legitimate
prominence could, if taken just a little bit further, turn him into a mon-
ster.50 In fact, most Tiv seemed to assume that most male elders were
witches, and that if a young person died, they were probably being paid
off for a flesh-debt.

But this still doesn't answer the one obvious question: Why is all
this framed in terms of debt?

Here a little history is in order. It would appear that the ancestors of
the Tiv arrived in the Benue river valley and adjacent lands sometime
around 1750 — a time when all of what's now Nigeria was being torn
apart by the Atlantic slave trade. Early stories relate how the Tiv, dur-
ing their migrations, used to paint their wives and children with what
looked like smallpox scars, so that potential raiders would be afraid to
carry them off.51 They established themselves in a notoriously inacces-
sible stretch of country and offered up ferocious defense against peri-
odic raids from neighboring kingdoms to their north and west — with
which they eventually came to a political rapprochement.52

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DEBT

The Tiv, then, were well aware of what was happening all around
them. Consider, for example, the case of the copper bars whose use
they were so careful to restrict, so as to avoid their becoming an all-
purpose form of currency.

Now, copper bars had been used for money in this part of Africa
for centuries, and at least in some places, for ordinary commercial
transactions, as well. It was easy enough to do: one simply snapped
them apart into smaller pieces, or pulled some of them into thin wires,
twisted those around to little loops, and one had perfectly serviceable
small change for everyday market transactions.53 Most of the ones cur-
rent in Tivland since the late eighteenth century, on the other hand,
were mass-produced in factories in Birmingham and imported through
the port of Old Calabar at the mouth of the Cross River, by slave-
traders based in Liverpool and Bristol.54 In all the country adjoining
the Cross River — that is, in the region directly to the south of the
Tiv territory — copper bars were used as everyday currency. This was
presumably how they entered Tivland; they were either carried in by
pedlars from the Cross River or acquired by Tiv traders on expeditions
abroad. All this, however, makes the fact that the Tiv refused to use
copper bars as such a currency doubly significant.

During the 1760s alone, perhaps a hundred thousand Africans were
shipped down the Cross River to Calabar and nearby ports, where they
were put in chains, placed on British, French, or other European ships,
and shipped across the Atlantic — part of perhaps a million and a half
exported from the Bight of Biafra during the whole period of the At-
lantic slave trade.55 Some of them had been captured in wars or raids,
or simply kidnapped. The majority, though, were carried off because
of debts.

Here, though, I must explain something about the organization of
the slave trade.

The Atlantic Slave Trade as a whole was a gigantic network of
credit arrangements. Ship-owners based in Liverpool or Bristol would
acquire goods on easy credit terms from local wholesalers, expecting to
make good by selling slaves (also on credit) to planters in the Antilles
and America, with commission agents in the city of London ultimately
financing the affair through the profits of the sugar and tobacco trade.56
Ship-owners would then transport their wares to African ports like
Old Calabar. Calabar itself was the quintessential mercantile city-state,
dominated by rich African merchants who dressed in European clothes,
lived in European-style houses, and in some cases even sent their chil-
dren to England to be educated.

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151

On arrival, European traders would negotiate the value of their
cargoes in the copper bars that served as the currency of the port. In
1698, a merchant aboard a ship called the Dragon noted the following
prices he managed to establish for his wares:

one bar iron 4 copper bars

one bunch of beads 4 copper bars

five rangoes57 4 copper bars

one basin No. 1 4 copper bars

one tankard 3 copper bars

one yard linen 1 copper bar

six knives 1 copper bar

one brass bell No. 1 3 copper bars

By the height of the trade fifty years later, British ships were bring-
ing in large quantities of cloth (both products of the newly created
Manchester mills and calicoes from India), and iron and copper ware,
along with incidental goods like beads, and also, for obvious reasons,
substantial numbers of firearms.''9 The goods were then advanced to
African merchants, again on credit, who assigned them to their own
agents to move upstream.

The obvious problem was how to secure the debt. The trade was
an extraordinarily duplicitous and brutal business, and slave raiders
were unlikely to be dependable credit risks — especially when dealing
with foreign merchants who they might never see again.60 As a result,
a system quickly developed in which European captains would demand
security in the form of pawns.

The sort of "pawns" we are talking about here are clearly quite
different from the kind we encountered among the Lele. In many of
the kingdoms and trading towns of West Africa, the nature of pawn-
ship appears to have already undergone profound changes by the time
Europeans showed up on the scene around 1500 — it had become, effec-
tively, a kind of debt peonage. Debtors would pledge family members
as surety for loans; the pawns would then become dependents in the
creditors' households, working their fields and tending to their house-
hold chores — their persons acting as security while their labor, effec-
tively, substituted for interest.61 Pawns were not slaves; they were not,
like slaves, cut off from their families; but neither were they precisely
free.62 In Calabar and other ports, masters of slaving ships, on advanc-
ing goods to their African counterparts, soon developed the custom of

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DEBT

demanding pawns as security — for instance, two of the merchants' own
dependents for every three slaves to be delivered, preferably including
at least one member of the merchants' families.63 This was in practice
not much different than demanding the surrender of hostages, and at
times it created major political crises when captains, tired of waiting
for delayed shipments, decided to take off with a cargo of pawns in-
stead.

Upriver, debt pawns also played a major part in the trade. In one
way, the area was a bit unusual. In most of West Africa, the trade ran
through major kingdoms such as Dahomey or Asante to make wars
and impose draconian punishments — one very common expedient for
rulers was to manipulate the justice system, so that almost any crime
came to be punishable by enslavement, or by death with the enslave-
ment of one's wife and children, or by outrageously high fines which,
if one could not pay them, would cause the defaulter and his family to
be sold as slaves. In another way, it is unusually revealing, since the
lack of any larger government structures made it easier to see what
was really happening. The pervasive climate of violence led to the sys-
tematic perversion of all the institutions of existing human economies,
which were transformed into a gigantic apparatus of dehumanization
and destruction.

In the Cross River region, the trade seems to have seen two phases.
The first was a period of absolute terror and utter chaos, in which
raids were frequent, and anyone traveling alone risked being kidnapped
by roving gangs of thugs and sold to Calabar. Before long, villages
lay abandoned; many people fled into the forest; men would have to
form armed parties to work the fields.64 This period was relatively
brief. The second began when representatives of local merchant soci-
eties began to establish themselves in communities up and down the
region, offering to restore order. The most famous of these was the
Aro Confederacy, who called themselves, "Children of God."65 Backed
by heavily armed mercenaries and the prestige of their famous Oracle
at Arochukwu, they established a new and notoriously harsh justice
system.66 Kidnappers were hunted down and themselves sold as slaves.
Safety was restored to roads and farmsteads. At the same time, Aro
collaborated with local elders to create a code of ritual laws and penal-
ties so comprehensive and severe that everyone was at constant risk of
falling afoul of them.67 Anyone who violated one would be turned over
to the Aro for transport to the coast, with their accuser receiving their
price in copper bars.68 According to some contemporary accounts, a
man who simply disliked his wife and was in need of brass rods could

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153

always come up with some reason to sell her, and the village elders —
who received a share of the profits — would almost invariably concur.69
The most ingenious trick of the merchant societies, though, was to
assist in the dissemination of a secret society, called Ekpe. Ekpe was
most famous for sponsoring magnificent masquerades and for initiat-
ing its members into arcane mysteries, but it also acted as a secret
mechanism for the enforcement of debts.70 In Calabar itself, for ex-
ample, the Ekpe society had access to a whole range of sanctions,
starting with boycotts (all members were forbidden to conduct trade
with a defaulting debtor), fines, seizure of property, arrest, and finally,
execution — with the most hapless victims left tied to trees, their lower
jaws removed, as a warning to others.71 It was ingenious, particularly,
because such societies always allowed anyone to buy in, rising though
the nine initiatory grades if they could pay the fee — these also exacted,
of course, in the brass rods the merchants themselves supplied. In Cala-
bar, the fee schedule for each grade looked like this:72

In other words, it was quite expensive. But membership quickly
became the chief mark of honor and distinction everywhere. Entry fees
were no doubt less exorbitant in small, distant communities, but the
effect was still the same: thousands ended up in debt to the merchants,
whether for the fees required for joining, or for the trade goods they
supplied (mostly cloth and metal put to use creating the gear and
costumes for the Ekpe performances — debts that they thus themselves
became responsible for enforcing on themselves. These debts, too, were
regularly paid in people, ostensibly yielded up as pawns.)

How did it work in practice? It appears to have varied a great deal
from place to place. In the Afikpo district, on a remote part of the up-
per Cross River, for instance, we read that everyday affairs — the acqui-
sition of food, for example — was conducted, as among the Tiv, "with-
out trade or the use of money." Brass rods, supplied by the merchant
societies, were used to buy and sell slaves, but otherwise mostly as a

i. Nyampi
2. Oku Akana

3. Brass
4. Makanda
5. Makara

6. Mboko Mboko

7. Bunko Abonko
8. Mboko Nya Ekpo

9. Ekpe

50 boxes brass rods for each
of the lower grades.

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DEBT

social currency, "used for gifts and for payments in funerals, titles, and
other ceremonies."73 Most of those payments, titles, and ceremonies
were tied to the secret societies that the merchants had also brought
to the area. All this does sound a bit like the Tiv arrangement, but the
presence of the merchants ensured that the effects were very different:

In the old days, if anybody got into trouble or debt in the up-
per parts of the Cross River, and wanted ready money, he used
generally to "pledge" one or more of his children, or some
other members of his family or household, to one of the Aku-
nakuna traders who paid periodical visits to his village. Or he
would make a raid on some neighboring village, seize a child,
and sell him or her to the same willing purchaser.74

The passage only makes sense if one recognizes that debtors were
also, owing to their membership in the secret societies, collectors. The
seizing of a child is a reference to the local practice of "panyarring,"
current throughout West Africa, by which creditors despairing of repay-
ment would simply sweep into the debtor's community with a group of
armed men and seize anything — people, goods, domestic animals — that
could be easily carried off, then hold it hostage as security.75 It didn't
matter if the people or goods had belonged to the debtor, or even the
debtor's relatives. A neighbor's goats or children would do just as well,
since the whole point was to bring social pressure on whoever owed
the money. As William Bosman put it, "If the Debtor be an honest man
and the Debt just, he immediately endeavours by the satisfaction of his
Creditors to free his Countrymen."76 It was actually a quite sensible
expedient in an environment with no central authority, where people
tended to feel an enormous sense of responsibility toward other mem-
bers of their community and very little responsibility toward anyone
else. In the case of the secret society cited above, the debtor would,
presumably, be calling in his own debts — real or imagined — to those
outside the organization, in order not to have to send off members of
his own family.77

Such expedients were not always effective. Often debtors would be
forced to pawn more and more of their own children or dependents,
until finally there was no recourse but to pawn themselves.78 And of
course, at the height of the slave trade, "pawning" had become little
more than a euphemism. The distinction between pawns and slaves
had largely disappeared. Debtors, like their families before them, ended
up turned over to the Aro, then to the British, and finally, shackled and

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chained, crowded into tiny slaving vessels and sent off to be sold on
plantations across the sea.79

If the Tiv, then, were haunted by the vision of an insidious secret orga-
nization that lured unsuspecting victims into debt traps, whereby they
themselves became the enforcers of debts to be paid with the bodies
of their children, and ultimately, themselves — one reason was because
this was, literally happening to people who lived a few hundred miles
away. Nor is the use of the phrase "flesh-debt" in any way inappropri-
ate. Slave-traders might not have been reducing their victims to meat,
but they were certainly reducing them to nothing more than bodies. To
be a slave was to be plucked from one's family, kin, friends, and com-
munity, stripped of one's name, identity, and dignity; of everything that
made one a person rather than a mere human machine capable of un-
derstanding orders. Neither were most slaves offered much opportunity
to develop enduring human relations. Most that ended up in Caribbean
or American plantations, though, were simply worked to death.

What is remarkable is that all this was done, the bodies extracted,
through the very mechanisms of the human economy, premised on the
principle that human lives are the ultimate value, to which nothing
could possibly compare. Instead, all the same institutions — fees for ini-
tiations, means of calculating guilt and compensation, social currencies,
debt pawnship — were turned into their opposite; the machinery was, as
it were, thrown into reverse; and, as the Tiv also perceived, the gears
and mechanisms designed for the creation of human beings collapsed
on themselves and became the means for their destruction.

I do not want to leave the reader with the impression that what I am
describing here is in any way peculiar to Africa. One could find the
exact same things happening wherever human economies came into
contact with commercial ones (and particularly, commercial economies
with advanced military technology and an insatiable demand for hu-
man labor).

Remarkably similar things can be observed throughout Southeast
Asia, particularly amongst hill and island people living on the fringes of
major kingdoms. As the premier historian of the region, Anthony Reid,

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has pointed out, labor throughout Southeast Asia has long been orga-
nized above all through relations of debt bondage.

Even in relatively simple societies little penetrated by money,
there were ritual needs for substantial expenditures — the pay-
ment of bride-price for marriage and the slaughter of a buffalo
at the death of a family member. It is widely reported that such
ritual needs are the most common reason why the poor become
indebted to the rich . . .80

For instance, one practice, noted from Thailand to Sulawesi, is
for a group of poor brothers to turn to a rich sponsor to pay for the
expenses of one brother's marriage. He's then referred to as their "mas-
ter." This is more like a patron-client relation than anything else: the
brothers might be obliged to do the occasional odd job, or appear as
his entourage on occasions when he has to make a good impression —
not much more. Still, technically, he owns their children, and "can also
repossess the wife he provided if his bondsmen fail to carry out his
obligations."81

Elsewhere, we hear similar stories to those in Africa — of peasants
pawning themselves or members of their families, or even gambling
themselves into bondage; of principalities where penalties invariably
took the form of heavy fines. "Frequently, of course, these fines could
not be paid, and the condemned man, often accompanied by his depen-
dants, became the bondsman of the ruler, of the injured party, or of
whoever was able to pay his fine for him."82 Reid insists that most of
this was relatively innocuous — in fact, poor men might take out loans
for the express purpose of becoming debtors to some wealthy patron,
who could provide them with food during hard times, a roof, a wife.
Clearly this was not "slavery" in the ordinary sense. That is, unless
the patron decided to ship some of his dependents off to creditors of
his own in some distant city like Majapahit or Ternate, whereupon
they might find themselves toiling in some grandee's kitchen or pepper
plantation like any other slave.

It's important to point this out because one of the effects of the
slave trade is that people who don't actually live in Africa are often
left with an image of that continent as an irredeemably violent, savage
place — an image that has had disastrous effects on those who do live
there. It might be fitting, then, to consider the history of one place that
is usually represented as the polar opposite: Bali, the famous "land of
ten thousand temples" — an island often pictured in anthropological
texts and tourist brochures as if it were inhabited exclusively by placid,

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157

dreamy artists who spend their days arranging flowers and practicing
synchronized dance routines.

In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, Bali had not yet ob-
tained this reputation. At the time, it was still divided among a dozen
tiny, squabbling kingdoms in an almost perpetual state of war. In fact,
its reputation among the Dutch merchants and officials ensconced in
nearby Java was almost exactly the opposite of what it is today. Ba-
linese were considered a rude and violent people ruled by decadent,
opium-addicted nobles whose wealth was based almost exclusively on
their willingness to sell their subjects to foreigners as slaves. By the
time the Dutch were fully in control in Java, Bali had been turned
largely into a reservoir for the export of human beings — young Bali-
nese women in particular being in great demand in cities through the
region as both prostitutes and concubines.83 As the island was drawn
into the slave trade, almost the entire social and political system of the
island was transformed into an apparatus for the forcible extraction
of women. Even within villages, ordinary marriages took the form of
"marriage by capture" — sometimes staged elopements, sometimes real
forcible kidnappings, after which the kidnappers would pay a woman's
family to let the matter drop.84 If a woman was captured by someone
genuinely important, though, no compensation would be offered. Even
in the 1960s, elders recalled how attractive young women used to be
hidden away by their parents,

forbidden to bear towering offerings to temple festivals, lest
they be espied by a royal scout and hustled into the closely
protected female quarters of the palace, where the eyes of male
visitors were restricted to foot level. For there was slim chance
a girl would become a legitimate low-caste wife (penawing) of
the raja . . . More likely after affording a few years' licentious
satisfaction, she would degenerate into a slave-like servant.85

Or, if she did rise to such a position that the high-caste wives be-
gan to see her as a rival, she might be either poisoned or shipped off
overseas to end up servicing soldiers at some Chinese-run bordello in
Jogjakarta, or changing bedpans in the house of a French plantation-
owner in the Indian Ocean island of Reunion.86 Meanwhile, royal law
codes were rewritten in all the usual ways, with the exception that here,
the force of law was directed above all and explicitly against women.
Not only were criminals and debtors to be enslaved and deported, but
any married man was granted the power to renounce his wife, and by
doing so render her, automatically, property of the local ruler, to be

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disposed of as he wished. Even a woman whose husband died before
she had produced male offspring would to be handed over to the palace
to be sold abroad.87

As Adrian Vickers explains, even Bali's famous cockfights — so fa-
miliar to any first-year anthropology student — were originally promot-
ed by royal courts as a way of recruiting human merchandise:

Kings even helped put people into debt by staging large cock-
fights in their capitals. The passion and extravagance encour-
aged by this exciting sport led many peasants to bet more than
they could afford. As with any gambling, the hope of great
wealth and the drama of a contest fuelled ambitions which
few could afford and at the end of the day, when the last spur
had sunk into the chest of the last rooster, many peasants had
no home and family to return to. They, and their wives and
children, would be sold to Java.88

Reflections on Violence

I began this book by asking a question: How is it that moral obliga-
tions between people come to be thought of as debts, and as a result,
end up justifying behavior that would otherwise seem utterly immoral?

I began this chapter by beginning to propose an answer: by making
a distinction between commercial economies and what I call "human
economies" — that is, those where money acts primarily as a social
currency, to create, maintain, or sever relations between people rather
than to purchase things. As Rospabe so cogently demonstrated, it is
the peculiar quality of such social currencies that they are never quite
equivalent to people. If anything, they are a constant reminder that
human beings can never be equivalent to anything — even, ultimately,
to one another. This is the profound truth of the blood-feud. No one
can ever really forgive the man who killed his brother because every
brother is unique. Nothing could substitute — not even some other man
given the same name and status as your brother, or a concubine who
will bear a son who will be named after your brother, or a ghost-wife
who will bear a child pledged to someday avenge his death.

In a human economy, each person is unique, and of incompa-
rable value, because each is a unique nexus of relations with others.
A woman may be a daughter, sister, lover, rival, companion, mother,
age-mate, and mentor to many different people in different ways. Each
relation is unique, even in a society in which they are sustained through

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the constant giving back and forth of generic objects such as raffia
cloth or bundles of copper wire. In one sense, those objects make one
who one is — a fact illustrated by the way the objects used as social
currencies are so often things otherwise used to clothe or decorate the
human body, that help make one who one is in the eyes of others. Still,
just as our clothes don't really make us who we are, a relationship kept
alive by the giving and taking of raffia is always something more than
that.89 This means that the raffia, in turn, is always something less.
This is why I think Rospabe was right to emphasize the fact that in
such economies, money can never substitute for a person: money is a
way of acknowledging that very fact, that the debt cannot be paid. But
even the notion that a person can substitute for a person, that one sis-
ter can somehow be equated with another, is by no means self-evident.
In this sense, the term "human economy" is double-edged. These are,
after all, economies: that is, systems of exchange in which qualities are
reduced to quantities, allowing calculations of gain and loss — even if
those calculations are simply a matter (as in sister exchange) of i equals
i, or (as in the feud) of i minus i equals o.

How is this calculability effectuated? How does it become pos-
sible to treat people as if they are identical? The Lele example gave
us a hint: to make a human being an object of exchange, one woman
equivalent to another for example, requires first of all ripping her from
her context; that is, tearing her away from that web of relations that
makes her the unique conflux of relations that she is, and thus, into
a generic value capable of being added and subtracted and used as a
means to measure debt. This requires a certain violence. To make her
equivalent to a bar of camwood takes even more violence, and it takes
an enormous amount of sustained and systematic violence to rip her so
completely from her context that she becomes a slave.

I should be clear here. I am not using the word "violence" meta-
phorically. I am not speaking merely of conceptual violence, but of the
literal threat of broken bones and bruised flesh; of punches and kicks;
in much the same way that when the ancient Hebrews spoke of their
daughters in "bondage," they were not being poetic, but talking about
literal ropes and chains.

Most of us don't like to think much about violence. Those lucky
enough to live relatively comfortable, secure lives in modern cities tend
either to act as if it does not exist or, when reminded that it does, to
write off the larger world "out there" as a terrible, brutal place, with
not much that can be done to help it. Either instinct allows us not to
have to think about the degree to which even our own daily existence
is defined by violence or at least the threat of violence (as I've often

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noted, think about what would happen if you were to insist on your
right to enter a university library without a properly validated ID), and
to overstate the importance — or at least the frequency — of things like
war, terrorism, and violent crime. The role of force in providing the
framework for human relations is simply more explicit in what we call
"traditional societies" — even if in many, actual physical assault by one
human on another occurs less often than in our own. Here's a story
from the Bunyoro kingdom, in East Africa:

Once a man moved into a new village. He wanted to find out
what his neighbors were like, so in the middle of the night he
pretended to beat his wife very severely, to see if the neighbors
would come and remonstrate with him. But he did not really
beat her; instead he beat a goatskin, while his wife screamed
and cried out that he was killing her. Nobody came, and the
very next day the man and his wife packed up and left that vil-
lage and went to find some other place to live.90

The point is obvious. In a proper village, the neighbors should have
rushed in, held him back, demanded to know what the woman could
possibly have done to deserve such treatment. The dispute would be-
come a collective concern that ended in some sort of collective settle-
ment. This is how people ought to live. No reasonable man or woman
would want to live in a place where neighbors don't look after one
another.

In its own way it's a revealing story, charming even, but one must
still ask: How would a community — even one the man in the sto-
ry would have considered a proper community — have reacted if they
thought she was beating him}91 I think we all know the answer. The
first case would have led to concern; the second would have led to ridi-
cule. In Europe in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, young vil-
lagers used to put on satirical skits making fun of husbands beaten by
their wives, even to parade them about the town mounted backwards
on an ass for everyone to jeer at.92 No African society, as far as I know,
went quite this far. (Neither did any African society burn as many
witches — Western Europe at that time was a particularly savage place.)
Yet as in most of the world, the assumption that the one sort of brutal-
ity was at least potentially legitimate, and that the other was not, was
the framework within which relations between the sexes took place.93

What I want to emphasize is that there is a direct relation be-
tween that fact and the possibility of trading lives for one another.

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161

Anthropologists are fond of making diagrams to represent preferential
marriage patterns. Sometimes, these diagrams can be quite beautiful:94

Ideal pattern of bilateral cross-cousin marriage

Sometimes they merely have a certain elegant simplicity, as in this
diagram on an instance of Tiv sister exhange:95

KUNAV

MBAGBERA

i — i —

MBADUKU

O D AC

A B

A A
1

1 1

0 M AN

1 |

Human beings, left to follow their own desires, rarely arrange
themselves in symmetrical patterns. Such symmetry tends to be bought
at a terrible human price. In the Tiv case, Akiga is actually willing to
describe it:

Under the old system an elder who had a ward could always
marry a young girl, however senile he might be, even if he

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were a leper with no hands or feet; no girl would dare to re-
fuse him. If another man were attracted by his ward he would
take his own and give her to the old man by force, in order
to make an exchange. The girl had to go with the old man,
sorrowfully carrying his goat-skin bag. If she ran back to her
home her owner caught her and beat her, then bound her and
brought her back to the elder. The old man was pleased, and
grinned till he showed his blackened molars. "Wherever you
go," he told her, "you will be brought back here to me; so
stop worrying, and settle down as my wife." The girl fretted,
till she wished the earth might swallow her. Some women even
stabbed themselves to death when they were given to an old
man against their will; but in spite of all, the Tiv did not care.96

The last line says everything. Citing it might seem unfair (the Tiv
did, evidently, care enough to elect Akiga to be their first parliamen-
tary representative, knowing he supported legislation to outlaw such
practices), but it serves nicely to bring home the real point: that certain
sorts of violence were considered morally acceptable.97 No neighbors
would rush in to intervene if a guardian was beating a runaway ward.
Or if they did, it would be to insist that he use more gentle means to
return her to her rightful husband. And it was because women knew
that this is how their neighbors, or even parents, would react that "ex-
change marriage" was possible.

This is what I mean by people "ripped from their contexts."

The Lele were fortunate enough to have largely escaped the devasta-
tions of the slave trade; the Tiv were sitting practically on the teeth
of the shark, and they had to make heroic efforts to keep the threat
at bay. Nonetheless, in both cases there were mechanisms for forcibly
removing young women from their homes, and it was precisely this
that made them exchangeable — though in each case too, a principle
stipulated that a woman could only be exchanged for another woman.
The few exceptions, when women could be exchanged for other things,
emerged directly from war and slavery — that is, when the level of vio-
lence was significantly ratcheted up.

The slave trade, of course, represented violence on an entirely dif-
ferent scale. We are speaking here of destruction of genocidal pro-
portions, in world-historic terms, comparable only to events like the
destruction of New World civilizations or the Holocaust. Neither do

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163

I mean in any way to blame the victims: we need only imagine what
would be likely to happen in our own society if a group of space aliens
suddenly appeared, armed with undefeatable military technology, infi-
nite wealth, and no recognizable morality — and announced that they
were willing to pay a million dollars each for human workers, no ques-
tions asked. There will always be at least a handful of people unscru-
pulous enough to take advantage of such a situation — and a handful
is all it takes.

Groups like the Aro Confederacy represent an all-too-familiar
strategy, deployed by fascists, mafias, and right-wing gangsters every-
where: first unleash the criminal violence of an unlimited market, in
which everything is for sale and the price of life becomes extremely
cheap; then step in, offering to restore a certain measure of order —
though one which in its very harshness leaves all the most profitable
aspects of the earlier chaos intact. The violence is preserved within the
structure of the law. Such mafias, too, almost invariably end up enforc-
ing a strict code of honor in which morality becomes above all a matter
of paying one's debts.

Were this a different book, I might reflect here on the curious par-
allels between the Cross River societies and Bali, both of which saw
a magnificent outburst of artistic creativity (Cross River Ekpe masks
were a major influence on Picasso) that took the form, above all, of
an efflorescence of theatrical performance, replete with intricate music,
splendid costumes, and stylized dance — a kind of alternative political
order as imaginary spectacle — at the exact moment that ordinary life
became a game of constant peril in which any misstep might lead to
being sent away. What was the link between the two? It's an interesting
question, but not one we can really answer here. For present purposes,
the crucial question has to be: How common was this? The African
slave trade was, as I mentioned, an unprecedented catastrophe, but
commercial economies had already been extracting slaves from human
economies for thousands of years. It is a practice as old as civilization.
The question I want to ask is: To what degree is it actually constitutive
of civilization itself?

I am not speaking strictly of slavery here, but of that process that
dislodges people from the webs of mutual commitment, shared history,
and collective responsibility that make them what they are, so as to
make them exchangeable — that is, to make it possible to make them
subject to the logic of debt. Slavery is just the logical end-point, the
most extreme form of such disentanglement. But for that reason it pro-
vides us with a window on the process as a whole. What's more, ow-
ing to its historical role, slavery has shaped our basic assumptions and

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institutions in ways that we are no longer aware of and whose influ-
ence we would probably never wish to acknowledge if we were. If we
have become a debt society, it is because the legacy of war, conquest,
and slavery has never completely gone away. It's still there, lodged in
our most intimate conceptions of honor, property, even freedom. It's
just that we can no longer see that it's there.

In the next chapter, I will begin to describe how this happened.

Chapter Seven

HONOR AND DEGRADATION

OR, ON THE FOUNDATIONS OF CONTEMPORARY CIVILIZATION

urs [HAR]: n., liver; spleen; heart, soul;
bulk, main body; foundation; loan;
obligation; interest; surplus, profit;
interest-bearing debt; repayment; slave-
woman.

— early Sumerian dictionary1

It is just to give each what is owed.

— Simonides

IN THE LAST CHAPTER, I offered a glimpse of how human econo-
mies, with their social currencies — which are used to measure, assess,
and maintain relationships between people, and only perhaps inciden-
tally to acquire material goods — might be transformed into something
else. What we discovered was that we cannot begin to think about such
questions without taking into account the role of sheer physical vio-
lence. In the case of the African slave trade, this was primarily violence
imposed from outside. Nonetheless, its very suddenness, its very brutal-
ity, provides us with a sort of freeze-frame of a process that must have
occurred in a much slower, more haphazard fashion in other times and
places. This is because there is every reason to believe that slavery, with
its unique ability to rip human beings from their contexts, to turn them
into abstractions, played a key role in the rise of markets everywhere.

What happens, then, when the same process happens more slowly?
It would seem that much of this history is permanently lost — since in
both the ancient Middle East and the ancient Mediterranean, most of
the really critical moments seem to have occurred just before the ad-
vent of written records. Still, the broad outlines can be reconstructed.

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The best way to do so, I believe, is to start from a single, odd, vexed
concept: the concept of honor, which can be treated as a kind of arti-
fact, or even as a hieroglyphic, a fragment preserved from history that
seems to compress into itself the answer to almost everything we've
been trying to understand. On the one hand, violence: men who live by
violence, whether soldiers or gangsters, are almost invariably obsessed
with honor, and assaults on honor are considered the most obvious
justification for acts of violence. On the other, debt. We speak both of
debts of honor, and honoring one's debts; in fact, the transition from
one to the other provides the best clue to how debts emerge from obli-
gations; even as the notion of honor seemed to echo a defiant insistence
that financial debts are not really the most important ones; an echo,
here, of arguments that, like those in the Vedas and the Bible, go back
to the very dawn of the market itself. Even more disturbingly, since the
notion of honor makes no sense without the possibility of degradation,
reconstructing this history reveals how much our basic concepts of
freedom and morality took shape within institutions — notably, but not
only, slavery — that we'd sooner not have to think about at all.

To underscore some of the paradoxes surrounding the concept and
bring home what's really at stake here, let us consider the story of one
man who survived the Middle Passage: Olaudah Equiano, born some-
time around 1745 in a rural community somewhere within the confines
of the Kingdom of Benin. Kidnapped from his home at the age of
eleven, Equiano was eventually sold to British slavers operating in the
Bight of Biafra, from whence he was conveyed first to Barbados, then
to a plantation in colonial Virginia.

Equiano's further adventures — and there were many — are narrated
in his autobiography, The Interesting Narrative of the Life of Olau-
dah Equiano: or, Gustavus Vassa, the African, published in 1789. After
spending much of the Seven Years' War hauling gunpowder on a Brit-
ish frigate, he was promised his freedom, denied his freedom, sold to
several owners — who regularly lied to him, promising his freedom, and
then broke their word — until he passed into the hands of a Quaker
merchant in Pennsylvania, who eventually allowed him to purchase his
freedom. Over the course of his later years he was to become a success-
ful merchant in his own right, a best-selling author, an Arctic explorer,
and eventually, one of the leading voices of English Abolitionism. His
eloquence and the power of his life story played significant parts in the
movement that led to the British abolition of the slave trade in 1807.

HONOR AND DEGRADATION

167

Readers of Equiano's book are often troubled by one aspect of the
story: that for most of his early life, he was not opposed to the institu-
tion of slavery. At one point, while saving money to buy his freedom,
he even briefly took a job that involved purchasing slaves in Africa.
Equiano only came around to an abolitionist position after converting
to Methodism and falling in with religious activists against the trade.
Many have asked: Why did it take him so long? Surely if anyone had
reason to understand the evils of slavery, he did.

The answer seems, oddly, to lie in the man's very integrity. One
thing that comes through strikingly in the book is that this was not
only a man of endless resourcefulness and determination, but above
all, a man of honor. Yet this created a terrible dilemma. To be made
a slave is to be stripped of any possible honor. Equiano wished above
all else to regain what had been taken from him. The problem is that
honor is, by definition, something that exists in the eyes of others. To
be able to recover it, then, a slave must necessarily adopt the rules and
standards of the society that surrounds him, and this means that, in
practice at least, he cannot absolutely reject the institutions that de-
prived him of his honor in the first place.

It strikes me that this experience — of only being able to restore
one's lost honor, to regain the ability to act with integrity by acting
in accord with the terms of a system that one knows, through deeply
traumatic personal experience, to be utterly unjust — is itself one of
the most profoundly violent aspects of slavery. It is another example,
perhaps, of the need to argue in the master's language, but here taken
to insidious extremes.

All societies based on slavery tend to be marked by this agonizing
double consciousness: the awareness that the highest things one has to
strive for are also, ultimately, wrong; but at the same time, the feeling
that this is simply the nature of reality. This might help explain why
throughout most of history, when slaves did rebel against their mas-
ters, they rarely rebelled against slavery itself. But the flip side of this is
that even slave-owners seemed to feel that the whole arrangement was
somehow fundamentally perverse or unnatural. First-year Roman law
students, for instance, were made to memorize the following definition:

slavery

is an institution according to the law of nations whereby
one person falls under the property rights of another, contrary
to nature.2

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At the very least, there was always seen to be something disrep-
utable and ugly about slavery. Anyone too close to it was tainted.
Slave-traders particularly were scorned as inhuman brutes. Throughout
history, moral justifications for slavery are rarely taken particularly
seriously even by those who espouse them. For most of human history,
most people saw slavery much as we see war: a tawdry business, to be
sure, but one would have to be naive indeed to imagine it could simply
be eliminated.

Honor Is Surplus Dignity

So what is slavery? I've already begun to suggest an answer in the last
chapter. Slavery is the ultimate form of being ripped from one's con-
text, and thus from all the social relationships that make one a human
being. Another way to put this is that the slave is, in a very real sense,
dead.

This was the conclusion of the first scholar to carry out a broad
historical survey of the institution, an Egyptian sociologist named Ali
'Abd al-Wahid Wafi, in Paris in 1931.3 Everywhere, he observes, from
the ancient world to then-present-day South America, one finds the
same list of possible ways whereby a free person might be reduced to
slavery:

1) By the law of force

a. By surrender or capture in war

b. By being the victim of raiding or kidnapping

2) As legal punishment for crimes (including debt)

3) Through paternal authority (a father's sale of his children)

4) Through the voluntary sale of one's self4

Everywhere, too, capture in war is considered the only way that
is considered absolutely legitimate. All the others were surrounded
by moral problems. Kidnapping was obviously criminal, and parents
would not sell children except under desperate circumstances.5 We read
of famines in China so severe that thousands of poor men would cas-
trate themselves, in the hope that they might sell themselves as eunuchs
at court — but this was also seen as the sign of total social breakdown.6
Even the judicial process could easily be corrupted, as the ancients were
well aware — especially when it came to enslavement for debt.

On one level, al-Wahid's argument is just an extended apologia for
the role of slavery in Islam — widely criticized, since Islamic law never

HONOR AND DEGRADATION

169

eliminated slavery, even when the institution largely vanished in the
rest of the Medieval world. True, he argues, Mohammed did not forbid
the practice, but still, the early Caliphate was the first government we
know of that actually succeeded in eliminating all these practices (judi-
cial abuse, kidnappings, the sale of offspring) that had been recognized
as social problems for thousands of years, and to limit slavery strictly
to prisoners of war.

The book's most enduring contribution, though, lay simply in ask-
ing: What do all these circumstances have in common? Al-Wahid's
answer is striking in its simplicity: one becomes a slave in situations
where one would otherwise have died. This is obvious in the case of
war: in the ancient world, the victor was assumed to have total power
over the vanquished, including their women and children; all of them
could be simply massacred. Similarly, he argued, criminals were con-
demned to slavery only for capital crimes, and those who sold them-
selves, or their children, normally faced starvation.7

This is not just to say, though, that a slave was seen as owing his
master his life since he would otherwise be dead.8 Perhaps this was true
at the moment of his or her enslavement. But after that, a slave could
not owe debts, because in almost every important sense, a slave was
dead. In Roman law, this was quite explicit. If a Roman soldier was
captured and lost his liberty, his family was expected to read his will
and dispose of his possessions. Should he later regain his freedom, he
would have to start over, even to the point of remarrying the woman
who was now considered his widow.9

In West Africa, according to one French anthropologist, the same
principles applied:

Once he had been finally removed from his own milieu through
capture the slave was considered as socially dead, just as if he
had been vanquished and killed in combat. Among the Mande,
at one time, prisoners of war brought home by the conquerors
were offered dege (millet and milk porridge) — because it was
held that a man should not die on an empty stomach — and
then presented with their arms so that they could kill them-
selves. Anyone who refused was slapped on the face by his
abductor and kept as a captive: he had accepted the contempt
which deprived him of personality.10

Tiv horror stories about men who are dead but do not know it
or who are brought back from the grave to serve their murderers, and

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Haitian zombie stories, all seem to play on this essential horror of slav-
ery: the fact that it's a kind of living death.

In a book called Slavery and Social Death — surely the most pro-
found comparative study of the institution yet written — Orlando Pat-
terson works out exactly what it has meant to be so completely and
absolutely ripped from one's context.11 First of all, he emphasizes, slav-
ery is unlike any other form of human relation because it is not a
moral relation. Slave-owners might dress it up in all sorts of legalistic
or paternalistic language, but really this is just window-dressing and no
one really believes it; really, it is a relation based purely on violence;
a slave must obey because if he doesn't, he can be beaten, tortured, or
killed, and everyone is perfectly well aware of this. Second of all, being
socially dead means that a slave has no binding moral relations with
anyone else: he is alienated from his ancestors, community, family,
clan, city; he cannot make contracts or meaningful promises, except at
the whim of his master; even if he acquires a family, it can be broken
up at any time. The relation of pure force that attached him to his mas-
ter was hence the only human relationship that ultimately mattered. As
a result — and this is the third essential element — the slave's situation
was one of utter degradation. Hence the Mande warrior's slap: the
captive, having refused his one final chance to save his honor by kill-
ing himself, must recognize that he will now be considered an entirely
contemptible being.12

Yet at the same time, this ability to strip others of their dignity
becomes, for the master, the foundation of his honor. As Patterson
notes, there have been places — the Islamic world affords numerous
examples — where slaves are not even put to work for profit; instead,
rich men make a point of surrounding themselves with battalions of
slave retainers simply for reasons of status, as tokens of their magnifi-
cence and nothing else.

It seems to me that this is precisely what gives honor its notori-
ously fragile quality. Men of honor tend to combine a sense of total
ease and self-assurance, which comes with the habit of command, with
a notorious jumpiness, a heightened sensitivity to slights and insults,
the feeling that a man (and it is almost always a man) is somehow
reduced, humiliated, if any "debt of honor" is allowed to go unpaid.
This is because honor is not the same as dignity. One might even say:
honor is surplus dignity. It is that heightened consciousness of power,
and its dangers, that comes from having stripped away the power and
dignity of others; or at the very least, from the knowledge that one
is capable of doing so. At its simplest, honor is that excess dignity
that must be defended with the knife or sword (violent men, as we

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all know, are almost invariably obsessed with honor). Hence the war-
rior's ethos, where almost anything that could possibly be seen as a
sign of disrespect — in inappropriate word, an inappropriate glance — is
considered a challenge, or can be treated as such. Yet even where overt
violence has largely been put out of the picture, wherever honor is at
issue, it comes with a sense that dignity can be lost, and therefore must
be constantly defended.

The result is that to this day, "honor" has two contradictory mean-
ings. On the one hand, we can speak of honor as simple integrity.
Decent people honor their commitments. This is clearly what "honor"
meant for Equiano: to be an honorable man meant to be one who
speaks the truth, obeys the law, keeps his promises, is fair and con-
scientious in his commercial dealings.13 His problem was that honor
simultaneously meant something else, which had everything to do with
the kind of violence required to reduce human beings to commodities
to begin with.

The reader might be asking: But what does all this have to do with
the origins of money? The answer is, surprisingly: everything. Some of
the most genuinely archaic forms of money we know about appear to
have been used precisely as measures of honor and degradation: that is,
the value of money was, ultimately, the value of the power to turn oth-
ers into money. The curious puzzle of the cumal — the slave-girl money
of medieval Ireland — would appear to be a dramatic illustration.

Honor Price (Early Medieval Ireland)

For much of its early history, Ireland's situation was not very different
than that in many of the African societies we looked at in the end of
the last chapter. It was a human economy perched uncomfortably on
the fringe of an expanding commercial one. What's more, at certain
periods there was a very lively slave trade. As one historian put it,
"Ireland has no mineral wealth, and foreign luxury goods could be
bought by Irish kings mainly for two export goods, cattle and peo-
ple."14 Hardly surprising, perhaps, that cattle and people were the two
major denominations of the currency. Still, by the time our earliest re-
cords kick in, around 600AD, the slave trade appears to have died off,
and slavery itself was a waning institution, coming under severe disap-
proval from the Church.15 Why, then, were cumal still being used as
units of account, to tally up debts that were actually paid out in cows,
and in cups and brooches and other objects made of silver, or, in the

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case of minor transactions, sacks of wheat or oats? And there's an even
more obvious question: Why women'! There were plenty of male slaves
in early Ireland, yet no one seems ever to have used them as money.

Most of what we know about the economy of early Medieval
Ireland comes from legal sources — a series of law codes, drawn up by
a powerful class of jurists, dating roughly from the seventh to ninth
centuries ad. These, however, are exceptionally rich. Ireland at that
time was still very much a human economy. It was also a very rural
one: people lived in scattered homesteads, not unlike the Tiv, growing
wheat and tending cattle. The closest there were to towns were a few
concentrations around monasteries. There appears to have been a near
total absence of markets, except for a few on the coast — presumably,
mainly slave or cattle markets — frequented by foreign ships.16

As a result, money was employed almost exclusively for social
purposes: gifts; fees to craftsmen, doctors, poets, judges, and entertain-
ers; various feudal payments (lords gave gifts of cattle to clients who
then had to regularly supply them with food). The authors of the law
codes didn't even know how to put a price on most goods of ordinary
use — pitchers, pillows, chisels, slabs of bacon, and the like; no one
seems ever to have paid money for them.17 Food was shared in families
or delivered to feudal superiors, who laid it out in sumptuous feasts
for friends, rivals, and retainers. Anyone needing a tool or furniture or
clothing either went to a kinsman with the relevant craft skills or paid
someone to make it. The objects themselves were not for sale. Kings,
in turn, assigned tasks to different clans: this one was to provide them
with leather, this one poets, this one shields . . . precisely the sort of un-
wieldy arrangement that markets were later developed to get around.18

Money could be loaned. There was a highly complex system of
pledges and sureties to guarantee that debtors delivered what they
owed. Mainly, though, it was used for paying fines. These fines are
endlessly and meticulously elaborated in the codes, but what really
strikes the contemporary observer is that they were carefully graded by
rank. This is true of almost all the "Barbarian Law Codes" — the size
of the penalties usually has at least as much do with the status of the
victim as it does with the nature of the injury — but only in Ireland were
things mapped out quite so systematically.

The key to the system was a notion of honor: literally "face."19
One's honor was the esteem one had in the eyes of others, one's hon-
esty, integrity, and character, but also one's power, in the sense of the
ability to protect oneself, and one's family and followers, from any
sort of degradation or insult. Those who had the highest degree of
honor were literally sacred beings: their persons and possessions were

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sacrosanct. What was so unusual about Celtic systems — and the Irish
one went further with this than any other — was that honor could be
precisely quantified. Every free person had his or her "honor price": the
price that one had to pay for an insult to the person's dignity. These
varied. The honor price of a king, for instance, was seven cumal, or
seven slave girls — this was the standard honor price for any sacred be-
ing, the same as a bishop or master poet. Since (as all sources hasten to
point out) slave girls were not normally paid as such, this would mean,
in the case of an insult to such a person's dignity, one would have to
pay twenty-one milk cows or twenty-one ounces of silver.20 The honor
price of a wealthy peasant was two and a half cows, of a minor lord,
that, plus half a cow additionally for each of his free dependents — and
since a lord, to remain a lord, had to have at least five of these, that
brought him up to at least five cows total.21

Honor price is not to be confused with wergeld — the actual price
of a man or woman's life. If one killed a man, one paid goods to the
value of seven cumals, in recompense for killing him, to which one
then added his honor price, for having offended against his dignity (by
killing him). Interestingly, only in the case of a king are the blood price
and his honor price the same.

There were also payments for injury: if one wounds a man's cheek,
one pays his honor price plus the price of the injury. (A blow to the
face was, for obvious reasons, particularly egregious.) The problem
was how to calculate the injury, since this varied according to both
the physical damage and status of the injured party. Here, Irish jurists
developed the ingenious expedient of measuring different wounds with
different varieties of grain: a cut on the king's cheek was measured in
grains of wheat, on that of a substantial farmer in oats, on that of a
smallholder merely in peas. One cow was paid for each.22 Similarly,
if one stole, say, a man's brooch or pig, one had to pay back three
brooches or three pigs — plus his honor price, for having violated the
sanctity of his homestead. Attacking a peasant under the protection of
a lord was the same as raping a man's wife or daughter, a violation
of the honor not of the victim, but of the man who should have been
able to protect them.

Finally, one had to pay the honor price if one simply insulted
someone of any importance: say, by turning the person away at a feast,
inventing a particularly embarrassing nickname (at least, if it caught
on), or humiliating the person through the use of satire.23 Mockery
was a refined art in Medieval Ireland, and poets were considered close
to magicians: it was said that a talented satirist could rhyme rats to
death, or at the very least, raise blisters on the faces of victims. Any

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man publicly mocked would have no choice but to defend his honor;
and, in Medieval Ireland, the value of that honor was precisely defined.

I should note that while twenty-one cows might not seem like
much when we are dealing with kings, Ireland at the time had about
150 kings.24 Most had only a couple of thousand subjects, though there
were also higher-ranking, provincial kings for whom the honor price
was double.25 What's more, since the legal system was completely sepa-
rate from the political one, jurists, in theory, had the right the demote
anyone — including a king — who had committed a dishonorable act. If
a nobleman turned a worthy man away from his door or feast, shel-
tered a fugitive, or ate steak from an obviously stolen cow, or even if
he allowed himself to be satirized and did not take the offending poet
to court, his price could be lowered to that of a commoner. But the
same was true of a king who ran away in battle, or abused his powers,
or even was caught working in the fields or otherwise engaging in tasks
beneath his dignity. A king who did something utterly outrageous —
murdered one of his own relatives, for example — might end up with no
honor price at all, which meant not that people could say anything they
liked about the king, without fear of recompense, but that he couldn't
stand as surety or witness in court, as one's oath and standing in law
was also determined by one's honor price. This didn't happen often,
but it did happen, and legal wisdom made sure to remind people of it:
the list, contained in one famous legal text, of the "seven kings who
lost their honor price," was meant to ensure that everyone remembered
that no matter how sacred and powerful, anyone could fall.

What's unusual about the Irish material is that it's all spelled out
so clearly. This is partly because Irish law codes were the work of a
class of legal specialists who seem to have turned the whole thing al-
most into a form of entertainment, devoting endless hours to coming
up with every possible abstract possibility. Some of the provisos are so
whimsical ("if stung by another man's bee, one must calculate the ex-
tent of the injury, but also, if one swatted it in the process, subtract the
replacement value of the bee") that one has to assume they were simply
jokes. Still, as a result, the moral logic that lies behind any elaborate
code of honor is laid out here in startling honesty. What about women?
A free woman was honored at precisely 50 percent of the price of her
nearest male relative (her father, if alive; if not, her husband). If she
was dishonored, her price was payable to that relative. Unless, that
is, she was an independent landholder. In that case, her honor price
was the same as that of a man. And unless she was a woman of easy
virtue, in which case it was zero, since she had no honor to outrage.
What about marriage? A suitor paid the value of the wife's honor to

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175

her father and thus became its guardian. What about serfs? The same
principle applied: when a lord acquired a serf, he bought out that
man's honor price, presenting him with its equivalent in cows. From
that moment on, if anyone insulted or injured the serf, it was seen an
attack on the lord's honor, and it was up to the lord to collect the at-
tendant fees. Meanwhile the lord's honor price was notched upward
as a result of gathering another dependent: in other words, he literally
absorbs his new vassal's honor into his own.26

All this, in turn, makes it possible to understand both something
of the nature of honor, and why slave girls were kept as units for
reckoning debts of honor even at a time when — owing no doubt to
church influence — they no longer actually changed hands. At first sight
it might seem strange that the honor of a nobleman or king should be
measured in slaves, since slaves were human beings whose honor was
zero. But if one's honor is ultimately founded on one's ability to extract
the honor of others, it makes perfect sense. The value of a slave is that
of the honor that has been extracted from them.

Sometimes, one comes on a single haphazard detail that gives the
game away. In this case it comes not from Ireland but from the Di-
metian Code in Wales, written somewhat later but operating on much
the same principles. At one point, after listing the honors due to the
seven holy sees of the Kingdom of Dyfed, whose bishops and abbots
were the most exalted and sacred creatures in the kingdom, the text
specifies that

Whoever draws blood from an abbot of any one of those prin-
cipal seats before mentioned, let him pay seven pounds; and a
female of his kindred to be a washerwoman, as a disgrace to
the kindred, and to serve as a memorial to the payment of the
honor price.27

A washerwoman was the lowest of servants, and the one turned
over in this case was to serve for life. She was, in effect, reduced to
slavery. Her permanent disgrace was the restoration of the abbot's
honor. While we cannot know if some similar institution once lay be-
hind the habit of reckoning the honor of Irish "sacred" beings in slave-
women, the principle is clearly the same. Honor is a zero-sum game. A
man's ability to protect the women of his family is an essential part of
that honor. Therefore, forcing him to surrender a woman of his family
to perform menial and degrading chores in another's household is the
ultimate blow to his honor. This, in turn, makes it the ultimate reaf-
firmation of the honor of he who takes it away.

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What makes Medieval Irish laws seem so peculiar from our perspective
is that their exponents had not the slightest discomfort with putting
an exact monetary price on human dignity. For us, the notion that the
sanctity of a priest or the majesty of a king could be held equivalent to
a million fried eggs or a hundred thousand haircuts is simply bizarre.
These are precisely the things that ought to be considered beyond all
possibility of quantification. If Medieval Irish jurists felt otherwise,
it was because people at that time did not use money to buy eggs or
haircuts.28 It was the fact that it was still a human economy, in which
money was used for social purposes, that it was possible to create such
an intricate system whereby it was possible not just to measure but to
add and subtract specific quantities of human dignity — and in doing so,
provide us with a unique window into the true nature of honor itself.

The obvious question is: What happens to such an economy when
people do begin to use the same money used to measure dignity to
buy eggs and haircuts? As the history of ancient Mesopotamia and
the Mediterranean world reveals, the result was a profound — and
enduring — moral crisis.

Mesopotamia (The Origins of Patriarchy)

In ancient Greek, the word for "honor" was time. In Homer's time, the
term appears to have been used much like the Irish term "honor price":
it referred both to the glory of the warrior and the compensation paid
as damages in case of injury or insult. Yet with the rise of markets
over the next several centuries, the meaning of the word time began to
change. On the one hand, it became the word for "price" — as in, the
price of something one buys in the market. On the other, it referred to
an attitude of complete contempt for markets.
Actually, this is still the case today:

In Greece the word "timi" means honor, which has been typi-
cally seen as the most important value in Greek village society.
Honor is often characterized in Greece as an open-handed gen-
erosity and blatant disregard for monetary costs and counting.
And yet the same word also means "price" as in the price of a
pound of tomatoes.29

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177

The word "crisis" literally refers to a crossroads: it is the point
where things could go either of two different ways. The odd thing
about the crisis in the concept of honor is that it never seems to have
been resolved. Is honor the willingness to pay one's monetary debts?
Or is it the fact that one does not feel that monetary debts are really
that important? It appears to be both at the same time.

There's also the question of what men of honor actually do think is
important. When most of us think of a Mediterranean villager's sense
of honor, we don't think so much of a casual attitude toward money
as of a veritable obsession with premarital virginity. Masculine honor
is caught up not even so much in a man's ability to protect his wom-
enfolk as in his ability to protect their sexual reputations, to respond
to any suggestion of impropriety on the part of his mother, wife, sister,
or daughter as if it were a direct physical attack on his own person.
This is a stereotype, but it's not entirely unjustified. One historian
who went through fifty years of police reports about knife-fights in
nineteenth-century Ionia discovered that virtually every one of them
began when one party publicly suggested that the other's wife or sister
was a whore.'0

So, why the sudden obsession with sexual propriety? It doesn't
seem to be there in the Welsh or Irish material. There, the greatest
humiliation was to see your sister or daughter reduced to scrubbing
someone else's laundry. What is it, then, about the rise of money and
markets that cause so many men to become so uneasy about sex?31

This is a difficult question, but at the very least, one can imagine
how the transition from a human economy to a commercial one might
cause certain moral dilemmas. What happens, for instance, when the
same money once used to arrange marriages and settle affairs of honor
can also be used to pay for the services of prostitutes?

As we'll see, there is reason to believe that it is in such moral
crises that we can find the origin not only of our current conceptions
of honor, but of patriarchy itself. This is true, at least, if we define
"patriarchy" in its more specific Biblical sense: the rule of fathers, with
all the familiar images of stern bearded men in robes, keeping a close
eye over their sequestered wives and daughters, even as their children
kept a close eye over their flocks and herds, familiar from the book
of Genesis.'2 Readers of the Bible had always assumed that there was
something primordial in all this; that this was simply the way desert
people, and thus the earliest inhabitants of the Near East, had always
behaved. This was why the translation of Sumerian, in the first half of
the twentieth century, came as something of a shock.

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In the very earliest Sumerian texts, particularly those from roughly
3000 to 2500 bc, women are everywhere. Early histories not only re-
cord the names of numerous female rulers, but make clear that women
were well represented among the ranks of doctors, merchants, scribes,
and public officials, and generally free to take part in all aspects of
public life. One cannot speak of full gender equality: men still outnum-
bered women in all these areas. Still, one gets the sense of a society
not so different than that which prevails in much of the developed
world today. Over the course of the next thousand years or so, all this
changes. The place of women in civic life erodes; gradually, the more
familiar patriarchal pattern takes shape, with its emphasis on chastity
and premarital virginity, a weakening and eventually wholesale disap-
pearance of women's role in government and the liberal professions,
and the loss of women's independent legal status, which renders them
wards of their husbands. By the end of the Bronze Age, around 1200 bc,
we begin to see large numbers of women sequestered away in harems
and (in some places, at least), subjected to obligatory veiling.

In fact, this appears to reflect a much broader worldwide pattern.
It has always been something of a scandal for those who like to see
the advance of science and technology, the accumulation of learning,
economic growth — "human progress," as we like to call it — as neces-
sarily leading to greater human freedom, that for women, the exact
opposite often seems to be the case. Or at least, has been the case until
very recent times. A similar gradual restriction on women's freedoms
can be observed in India and China. The question is, obviously, Why?
The standard explanation in the Sumerian case has been the gradual
infiltration of pastoralists from the surrounding deserts who, presum-
ably, always had more patriarchal mores. There was, after all, only a
narrow strip of land along the Tigris and Euphrates rivers that could
support intensive irrigation works, and hence, urban life. Civilization
was thus from early times surrounded by a fringe of desert people, who
lived much like those described in Genesis and spoke the same Semitic
languages. It is undeniably true that, over the course of time, the Su-
merian language was gradually replaced — first by Akkadian, then by
Amorite, then by Aramaic languages, and finally, most recently of all,
by Arabic, which was also brought to Mesopotamia and the Levant by
desert pastoralists. While all this did, clearly, bring with it profound
cultural changes as well, it's not a particularly satisfying explanation.33
Former nomads appear to have been willing to adapt to urban life in
any number of other ways. Why not that one? And it's very much a
local explanation and does nothing, really, to explain the broader pat-
tern. Feminist scholarship has instead tended to emphasize the growing

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scale and social importance of war, and the increasing centralization
of the state that accompanied it.34 This is more convincing. Certainly,
the more militaristic the state, the harsher its laws tended to be toward
women. But I would add another, complementary argument. As I have
emphasized, historically, war, states, and markets all tend to feed off
one another. Conquest leads to taxes. Taxes tend to be ways to create
markets, which are convenient for soldiers and administrators. In the
specific case of Mesopotamia, all of this took on a complicated relation
to an explosion of debt that threatened to turn all human relations —
and by extension, women's bodies — into potential commodities. At the
same time, it created a horrified reaction on the part of the (male) win-
ners of the economic game, who over time felt forced to go to greater
and greater lengths to make clear that their women could in no sense
be bought or sold.

A glance at the existing material on Mesopotamian marriage gives
us a clue as to how this might have happened.

It is common anthropological wisdom that bridewealth tends to
be typical of situations where population is relatively thin, land not a
particularly scarce resource, and therefore, politics are all about con-
trolling labor. Where population is dense and land at a premium, one
tends to instead find dowry: adding a woman to the household is add-
ing another mouth to feed, and rather than being paid off, a bride's
father is expected to contribute something (land, wealth, money . . .)
to help support his daughter in her new home.35 In Sumerian times, for
instance, the main payment at marriage was a huge gift of food paid by
the groom's father to the bride's, destined to provide a sumptuous feast
for the wedding.36 Before long, however, this seems to have split into
two payments, one for the wedding, another to the woman's father,
calculated — and often paid — in silver.37 Wealthy women sometimes ap-
pear to have ended up with the money: at least, many appear to have
to worn silver arm and leg rings of identical denominations.

However as time went on, this payment, called the terhatum, often
began to take on the qualities of a simple purchase. It was referred
to as "the price of a virgin" — not a mere metaphor, since the illegal
deflowering of a virgin was considered a property crime against her
father.38 Marriage was referred to as "taking possession" of a woman,
the same word one would use for the seizure of goods.39 In principle,
a wife, once possessed, owed her husbands strict obedience, and often
could not seek a divorce even in cases of physical abuse.

For women with wealthy or powerful parents, all this remained
largely a matter of principle, modified considerably in practice. Mer-
chants' daughters, for example, typically received substantial cash

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dowries, with which they could go into business in their own right,
or act as partners to their husbands. However, for the poor — that is,
most people — marriage came more and more to resemble a simple cash
transaction.

Some of this must have been an effect of slavery: while actual
slaves were rarely numerous, the very existence of a class of people
with no kin, who were simply commodities, did make a difference. In
Nuzi, for instance, "the brideprice was paid in domestic animals and
silver amounting to a total value of 40 shekels of silver'" — to which the
author drily adds, "there is some evidence that it was equal to the price
of a slave girl."40 This must have been making things uncomfortably
obvious. It's in Nuzi, too, where we happen to have unusually detailed
records, that we find examples of rich men paying cut-rate "brideprice"
to impoverished families to acquire a daughter who they would then
adopt, but who would in fact be either kept as a concubine or nurse-
maid, or married to one of their slaves.41

Still, the really critical factor here was debt. As I pointed out in the
last chapter, anthropologists have long emphasized that paying bride-
wealth is not the same as buying a wife. After all — and this was one
of the clinching arguments, remember, in the original 1930s League of
Nations debate — if a man were really buying a woman, wouldn't he
also be able to sell her? Clearly African and Melanesian husbands were
not able to sell their wives to some third party. At most, they could
send them home and demand back their bridewealth.42

A Mesopotamian husband couldn't sell his wife either. Or, nor-
mally he couldn't. Still, everything changed the moment he took out a
loan. Since if he did, it was perfectly legal — as we've seen — to use his
wife and children as surety, and if he was unable to pay, they could
then be taken away as debt pawns in exactly the same way that he
could lose his slaves, sheep, and goats. What this also meant was that
honor and credit became, effectively, the same thing: at least for a
poor man, one's creditworthiness was precisely one's command over
one's household, and (the flip side, as it were) relations of domestic
authority, relations that in principle meant ones of care and protection,
became property rights that could indeed be bought and sold.

Again, for the poor, this meant that family members became com-
modities that could be rented or sold. Not only could one dispose of
daughters as "brides" to work in rich men's households, tablets in Nuzi
show that one could now hire out family members simply by taking
out a loan: there are recorded cases of men sending their sons or even
wives as "pawns" for loans that were clearly just advance payment for
employment in the lender's farm or cloth workshop.43

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The most dramatic and enduring crisis centered on prostitution.
It's actually not entirely clear, from the earliest sources, whether one
can speak here of "prostitution" at all. Sumerian temples do often ap-
pear to have hosted a variety of sexual activities. Some priestesses, for
instance, were considered to be married to or otherwise dedicated to
gods. What this meant in practice seems to have varied considerably.
Much as in the case of the later devadasis, or "temple dancers" of
Hindu India, some remained celibate; others were permitted to marry
but were not to bear children; others were apparently expected to find
wealthy patrons, becoming in effect courtesans to the elite. Still oth-
ers lived in the temples and had the responsibility to make themselves
sexually available to worshippers on certain ritual occasions.44 One
thing the early texts do make clear is that all such women were con-
sidered extraordinarily important. In a very real sense, they were the
ultimate embodiments of civilization. After all, the entire machinery of
the Sumerian economy ostensibly existed to support the temples, which
were considered the households of the gods. As such, they represented
the ultimate possible refinement in everything from music and dance to
art, cuisine, and graciousness of living. Temple priestesses and spouses
of the gods were the highest human incarnations of this perfect life.

It's also important to emphasize that Sumerian men do not appear,
at least in this earliest period, to have seen anything troubling about
the idea of their sisters having sex for money. To the contrary, insofar
as prostitution did occur (and remember, it could not have been nearly
so impersonal, cold-cash a relation in a credit economy), Sumerian
religious texts identify it as among the fundamental features of human
civilization, a gift given by the gods at the dawn of time. Procreative
sex was considered natural (after all, animals did it). Non-procreative
sex, sex for pleasure, was divine.45

The most famous expression of this identification of prostitute
and civilization can be found in the story of Enkidu in the epic of Gil-
gamesh. In the beginning of the story, Enkidu is a monster — a naked
and ferocious "wild man" who grazes with the gazelles, drinks at the
watering place with wild cattle, and terrorizes the people of the city.
Unable to defeat him, the citizens finally send out a courtesan who is
also a priestess of the goddess Ishtar. She strips before him, and they
make love for six days and seven nights. Afterward, Enkidu's former
animal companions run away from him. After she explains that he has
now learned wisdom and become like a God (she is, after all, a divine
consort), he agrees to put on clothing and come to live in the city like
a proper, civilized human being.46

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Already, in the earliest version of the Enkidu story, though, one
can detect a certain ambivalence. Much later, Enkidu is sentenced to
death by the gods, and his immediate reaction is to condemn the cour-
tesan for having brought him from the wilds in the first place: he curses
her to become a common streetwalker or tavern keeper, living among
vomiting drunks, abused and beaten by her clients. Then, later, he re-
grets his behavior and blesses her instead. But that trace of ambivalence
was there from the beginning, and over time, it grew more powerful.
From early times, Sumerian and Babylonian temple complexes were
surrounded by far less glamorous providers of sexual services — indeed,
by the time we know much about them, they were the center of veri-
table red-light districts full of taverns with dancing girls, men in drag
(some of them slaves, some runaways), and an almost infinite variety of
prostitutes. There is an endlessly elaborate terminology whose subtle-
ties are long since lost to us. Most seem to have doubled as entertain-
ers: tavern-keepers doubled as musicians; male transvestites were not
only singers and dancers, but often performed knife-throwing acts.
Many were slaves put to work by their masters, or women working
off religious vows or debts, or debt bondswomen, or, for that matter,
women escaping debt bondage with no place else to go. Over time,
many of the lower-ranking temple women were either bought as slaves
or debt peons as well, and there might have often been a blurring of
roles between priestesses who performed erotic rituals and prostitutes
owned by the temple (and hence, in principle, by the god), sometimes
lodged within the temple compound itself, whose earnings added to
the temple treasuries.47 Since most everyday transactions in Mesopo-
tamia were not cash transactions, once has to assume that it was the
same with prostitutes — like the tavern-keepers, many of whom seem to
have been former prostitutes, they developed ongoing credit relations
with their clients — and this must have meant that most were less like
what we think of as streetwalkers and more like courtesans.48 Still,
the origins of commercial prostitution appear to have been caught up
in a peculiar mixture of sacred (or once-sacred) practice, commerce,
slavery, and debt.

"Patriarchy" originated, first and foremost, in a rejection of the great
urban civilizations in the name of a kind of purity, a reassertion of pa-
ternal control against great cities like Uruk, Lagash, and Babylon, seen
as places of bureaucrats, traders, and whores. The pastoral fringes,
the deserts and steppes away from the river valleys, were the places

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to which displaced, indebted farmers fled. Resistance, in the ancient
Middle East, was always less a politics of rebellion than a politics of
exodus, of melting away with one's flocks and families — often before
both were taken away.49 There were always tribal peoples living on the
fringes. During good times, they began to take to the cities; in hard
times, their numbers swelled with refugees — farmers who effectively
became Enkidu once again. Then, periodically, they would create their
own alliances and sweep back into the cities once again as conquerors.
It's difficult to say precisely how they imagined their situation, because
it's only in the Old Testament, written on the other side of the Fertile
Crescent, that one has any record of the pastoral rebels' points of view.
But nothing there mitigates against the suggestion that the extraordi-
nary emphasis we find there on the absolute authority of fathers, and
the jealous protection of their fickle womenfolk, were made possible
by, but at the same time a protest against, this very commoditization
of people in the cities that they fled.

The world's Holy Books — the Old and New Testaments, the Ko-
ran, religious literature from the Middle Ages to this day — echo this
voice of rebellion, combining contempt for the corrupt urban life, sus-
picion of the merchant, and often, intense misogyny. One need only
think of the image of Babylon itself, which has become permanently
lodged in the collective imagination as not only the cradle of civiliza-
tion, but also the Place of Whores. Herodotus echoed popular Greek
fantasies when he claimed that every Babylonian maiden was obliged
to prostitute herself at the temple, so as to raise the money for her
dowry.50 In the New Testament, Saint Peter often referred to Rome
as "Babylon," and the Book of Revelation provides perhaps the most
vivid image of what he meant by this when it speaks of Babylon, "the
great whore," sitting "upon a scarlet colored beast, full of names of
blasphemy":

17:4 And the woman was arrayed in purple and scarlet color,
and decked with gold and precious stones and pearls, having a
golden cup in her hand full of abominations and filthiness of
her fornication:

17:5 And upon her forehead was a name written, mystery,

BABYLON THE GREAT, THE MOTHER OF HARLOTS AND ABOM-
INATIONS OF THE EARTH."

Such is the voice of patriarchal hatred of the city, and of the angry
millennial voices of the fathers of the ancient poor.

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Patriarchy as we know it seems to have taken shape in a see-sawing
battle between the newfound elites and newly dispossessed. Much of
my own analysis here is inspired by the brilliant work of feminist his-
torian Gerda Lerner, who, in an essay on the origins of prostitution,
observed:

Another source for commercial prostitution was the pauper-
ization of farmers and their increasing dependence on loans
in order to survive periods of famine, which led to debt slav-
ery. Children of both sexes were given up for debt pledges or
sold for "adoption." Out of such practices, the prostitution of
female family members for the benefit of the head of the fam-
ily could readily develop. Women might end up as prostitutes
because their parents had to sell them into slavery or because
their impoverished husbands might so use them. Or they might
become self-employed as a last alternative to enslavement.
With luck, they might in this profession be upwardly mobile
through becoming concubines.

By the middle of the second millennium B.C., prostitution
was well established as a likely occupation for the daughters of
the poor. As the sexual regulation of women of the propertied
class became more firmly entrenched, the virginity of respect-
able daughters became a financial asset for the family. Thus,
commercial prostitution came to be seen as a social necessity
for meeting the sexual needs of men. What remained problem-
atic was how to distinguish clearly and permanently between
respectable and non-respectable women.

This last point is crucial. The most dramatic known attempt to
solve the problem, Lerner observes, can be found in a Middle Assyrian
law code dating from somewhere between 1400 and 1100 BC, which is
also the first known reference to veiling in the history of the Middle
East — and also, Lerner emphasizes, first to make the policing of social
boundaries the responsibility of the state.52 It is not surprising that this
takes place under the authority of perhaps the most notoriously milita-
ristic state in the entire ancient Middle East.

The code carefully distinguishes among five classes of women. Re-
spectable women (either married ladies or concubines), widows, and
daughters of free Assyrian men — "must veil themselves" when they go
out on the street. Prostitutes and slaves (and prostitutes are now con-
sidered to include unmarried temple servants as well as simple harlots)
are not allowed to wear veils. The remarkable thing about the laws is

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185

that the punishments specified in the code are not directed at respect-
able women who do not wear veils, but against prostitutes and slaves
who do. The prostitute was to be publicly beaten fifty times with staves
and have pitch poured on her head; the slave girl was to have her ears
cut off. Free men proven to have knowingly abetted an impostor would
also be thrashed and put to a month's forced labor.

Presumably in the case of respectable women, the law was assumed
to be self-enforcing: as what respectable woman would wish to go out
on the street in the guise of a prostitute?

When we refer to "respectable" women, then, we are referring to
those whose bodies could not, under any conditions, be bought or sold.
Their physical persons were hidden away and permanently relegated
to some man's domestic sphere; when they appeared in public veiled,
they were effectively still ostentatiously walking around, even in public,
inside such a sphere.53 Women who could be exchanged for money, on
the other hand, must be instantly recognizable as such.

The Assyrian law code is one isolated instance; veils certainly did
not become obligatory everywhere after 1300 bc. But it provides a win-
dow on developments that were happening, however unevenly, even
spasmodically, across the region, propelled by the intersection of com-
merce, class, defiant assertions of male honor, and the constant threat
of the defection of the poor. States seem to have played a complex dual
role, simultaneously fostering commoditization and intervening to ame-
liorate its effects: enforcing the laws of debt and rights of fathers, and
offering periodic amnesties. But the dynamic also led, over the course
of millennia, to a systematic demotion of sexuality itself from a divine
gift and embodiment of civilized refinement to one of its more familiar
associations: with degradation, corruption, and guilt.

Here I think we have the explanation for that general decline of wom-
en's freedoms that may be observed in all the great urban civilizations
for so much of their history. In all of them, similar things were hap-
pening, even if in each case, the pieces came together in different ways.

The history of China, for instance, saw continual and largely un-
successful government campaigns to eradicate both brideprice and debt
slavery, and periodic scandals over the existence of "markets in daugh-
ters," including the outright sale of girls as daughters, wives, concu-
bines, or prostitutes (at the buyer's discretion) continue to this day.54
In India, the caste system allowed what were otherwise differences
between rich and poor to be made formal and explicit. Brahmins and

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DEBT

other members of the upper castes jealously sequestered their daugh-
ters, and married them off with lavish dowries, while the lower castes
practiced brideprice, allowing members of the higher ("twice-born")
castes to scoff at them for selling their daughters. The twice-born were
likewise largely protected from falling into debt bondage, while for
much of the rural poor, debt dependency was institutionalized, with
the daughters of poor debtors, predictably, often dispatched to brothels
or to the kitchens or laundries of the rich.55 In either case, between the
push of commoditization, which fell disproportionally on daughters,
and the pull of those trying to reassert patriarchal rights to "pro-
tect" women from any suggestion that they might be commoditized,
women's formal and practical freedoms appear to have been gradually
but increasingly restricted and effaced. As a result, notions of honor
changed too, becoming a kind of protest against the implications of the
market, even as at the same time (like the world religions) they came
to echo that market logic in endless subtle ways.

Nowhere, however, are our sources as rich and detailed as they
are for ancient Greece. This is partly because a commercial economy
arrived there so late, almost three thousand years later than in Sumer.
As a result, Classical Greek literature gives us a unique opportunity to
observe the transformation as it was actually taking place.

Ancient Greece (Honor and Debt)

The world of the Homeric epics is one dominated by heroic warriors
who are disdainful of trade. In many ways, it is strikingly reminiscent
of medieval Ireland. Money existed, but it was not used to buy any-
thing; important men lived their lives in pursuit of honor, which took
material form in followers and treasure. Treasures were given as gifts,
awarded as prizes, carried off as loot.56 This is no doubt how time first
came to mean both "honor" and "price" — in such a world, no one
sensed any sort of contradiction between the two.57

All this was to change dramatically when commercial markets be-
gan to develop two hundred years later. Greek coinage seem to have
been first used mainly to pay soldiers, as well as to pay fines and fees
and payments made to and by the government, but by about 600 BC,
just about every Greek city-state was producing its own coins as a
mark of civic independence. It did not take long, though, before coins
were in common use in everyday transactions. By the fifth century, in

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187

Greek cities, the agora, the place of public debate and communal as-
sembly, also doubled as a marketplace.

One of the first effects of the arrival of a commercial economy was
a series of debt crises, of the sort long familiar from Mesopotamia and
Israel. "The poor," as Aristotle succinctly put it in his Constitution of
the Athenians, "together with their wives and children, were enslaved
to the rich."58 Revolutionary factions emerged, demanding amnesties,
and most Greek cities were at least for a while taken over by populist
strongmen swept into power partly by the demand for radical debt
relief. The solution most cities ultimately found, however, was quite
different than it had been in the Near East. Rather than institutionalize
periodic amnesties, Greek cities tended to adopt legislation limiting or
abolishing debt peonage altogether, and then, to forestall future crises,
they would turn to a policy of expansion, shipping off the children of
the poor to found military colonies overseas. Before long, the entire
coast from Crimea to Marseille was dotted with Greek cities, which
served, in turn, as conduits for a lively trade in slaves.59 The sudden
abundance of chattel slaves, in turn, completely transformed the nature
of Greek society. First and most famously, it allowed even citizens of
modest means to take part in the political and cultural life of the city
and have a genuine sense of citizenship. But this, in turn, drove the
old aristocratic classes to develop more and more elaborate means of
setting themselves off from what they considered the tawdriness and
moral corruption of the new democratic state.

When the curtain truly goes up on Greece, in the fifth century, we
find everybody arguing about money. For the aristocrats, who wrote
most of the surviving texts, money was the embodiment of corruption.
Aristocrats disdained the market. Ideally, a man of honor should be
able to raise everything he needed on his own estates, and never have
to handle cash at all.60 In practice, they knew this was impossible.
Yet at every point they tried to set themselves apart from the values
of the ordinary denizens of the marketplace: to contrast the beautiful
gold and silver beakers and tripods they gave one another at funerals
and weddings with the vulgar hawking of sausages or charcoal; the
dignity of the athletic contests for which they endlessly trained with
commoners' vulgar gambling; the sophisticated and literate courtesans
who attended to them at their drinking clubs, and common prostitutes
(pome) — slave-girls housed in brothels near the agora, brothels often
sponsored by the democratic polis itself as a service to the sexual needs
of its male citizenry. In each case, they placed a world of gifts, generos-
ity, and honor above sordid commercial exchange.61

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This resulted in a slightly different play of push and pull than we
saw in Mesopotamia. On the one hand, we see a culture of aristocratic
protest against what they saw as the lowly commercial sensibilities of
ordinary citizens. On the other hand, we see an almost schizophrenic
reaction on the part of the ordinary citizens themselves, who simulta-
neously tried to limit or even ban aspects of aristocratic culture and to
imitate aristocratic sensibilities. Pederasty is an excellent case in point
here. On the one hand, man-boy love was seen as the quintessential
aristocratic practice — it was the way, in fact, that young aristocrats
would ordinarily become initiated into the privileges of high society. As
a result, the democratic polis saw it as politically subversive and made
sexual relations between male citizens illegal. At the same time, almost
everyone began to practice it.

The famous Greek obsession with male honor that still informs so
much of the texture of daily life in rural communities in Greece hear-
kens back not so much to Homeric honor but to this aristocratic rebel-
lion against the values of the marketplace, which everyone, eventually,
began to make their own.62 The effects on women, though, were even
more severe than they had been in the Middle East. Already by the
age of Socrates, while a man's honor was increasingly tied to disdain
for commerce and assertiveness in public life, a woman's honor had
come to be defined in almost exclusively sexual terms: as a matter of
virginity, modesty, and chastity, to the extent that respectable women
were expected to be shut up inside the household and any woman who
played a part in public life was considered for that reason a prostitute,
or tantamount to one.63 The Assyrian habit of veiling was not widely
adopted in the Middle East, but it was adopted in Greece. As much
as it flies in the face of our stereotypes about the origins of "Western"
freedoms, women in democratic Athens, unlike those of Persia or Syria,
were expected to wear veils when they ventured out in public.64

Money, then, had passed from a measure of honor to a measure of
everything that honor was not. To suggest that a man's honor could
be bought with money became a terrible insult — this despite the fact
that, since men were often taken in war or even by bandits or pirates
and held for ransom, they often did go through dramas of bondage
and redemption not unlike those experienced by so many Middle East-
ern women. One particularly striking way of hammering it home —
actually, in this case, almost literally — was by branding ransomed pris-
oners with the mark of their own currency, much as if today some

HONOR AND DEGRADATION

189

imaginary foreign kidnapper, after having received the ransom money
for an American victim, made a point of burning a dollar sign onto the
victim's forehead before returning him.65

One question that isn't clear from all this is, Why? Why had mon-
ey, in particular, become such a symbol of degradation? Was it all
because of slavery? One might be tempted to conclude that it was: per-
haps the newfound presence of thousands of utterly degraded human
beings in ancient Greek cities made any suggestion that a free man (let
alone a free woman) might in any sense be bought or sold particularly
insulting. But this is clearly not the case. Our discussion of the slave
money of Ireland showed that the possibility of the utter degradation
of a human being was in no sense a threat to heroic honor — in a way,
it was its very essence. Homeric Greeks do not appear to have been
any different. It seems hardly coincidental that the quarrel between
Agamemnon and Achilles that sets off the action of the Iliad, generally
considered to be the first great work of Western literature, is a dispute
over honor between two heroic warriors over the disposition of a slave
girl.66 Agamemnon and Achilles were also well aware that it would
only take an unfortunate turn in battle, or perhaps a shipwreck, for
either of them to wind up as a slave. Odysseus barely escapes being
enslaved on several occasions in the Odyssey. Even in the third century
ad, the Roman emperor Valerian (253-260 ad), defeated at the Battle of
Edessa, was captured and spent the last years of his life as the footstool
that the Sassanian emperor Shapur I used to mount his horse. Such
were the perils of war. All this was essential to the nature of martial
honor. A warrior's honor is his willingness to play a game on which
he stakes everything. His grandeur is directly proportional to how far
he can fall.

Was it, then, that the advent of commercial money threw tradition-
al social hierarchies into disarray? Greek aristocrats often spoke this
way, but the complaints seem rather disingenuous. Surely it was money
that allowed such a polished aristocracy to exist in the first place.67
Rather, the thing that really seemed to bother them about money was
simply that they wanted it so much. Since money could be used to buy
just about anything, everybody wanted it. That is: it was desirable
because it was non-discriminating. One could see how the metaphor
of the pome might seem particularly appropriate. A woman "common
to the people" — as the poet Archilochos put it — is available to every-
one. In principle, we shouldn't be attracted to such an undiscriminat-
ing creature. In fact, of course, we are.68 And nothing was both so
undiscriminating, and so desirable, as money. True, Greek aristocrats
would ordinarily insist that they were not attracted to common pome,

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and that the courtesans, flute-girls, acrobats, and beautiful boys that
frequented their symposia were not really prostitutes at all (though at
times they also admitted that they really were), they also struggled with
the fact that their own high-minded pursuits, such as chariot-racing,
outfitting ships for the navy, and sponsoring tragic dramas, required
the exact same coins as the ones used to buy cheap perfume and pies
for a fisherman's wife — the only real difference being that their pursuits
tended to require a lot more of them.6'

We might say, then, that money introduced a democratization of
desire. Insofar as everyone wanted money, everyone, high and low, was
pursuing the same promiscuous substance. But even more: increasingly,
they did not just want money. They needed it. This was a profound
change. In the Homeric world, as in most human economies, we hear
almost no discussion of those things considered necessary to human life
(food, shelter, clothing) because it is simply assumed that everybody
has them. A man with no possessions could, at the very least, become a
retainer in some rich man's household. Even slaves had enough to eat.70
Here too, the prostitute was a potent symbol for what had changed,
since while some of the denizens of brothels were slaves, others were
simply poor; the fact that their basic needs could no longer be taken
for granted were precisely what made them submit to others' desires.
This extreme fear of dependency on others' whims lies at the basis of
the Greek obsession with the self-sufficient household.

All this lies behind the unusually assiduous efforts of the male
citizens of Greek city-states — like the later Romans — to insulate their
wives and daughters from both the dangers and the freedoms of the
marketplace. Unlike their equivalents in the Middle East, they do not
seem to have offered them as debt pawns. Neither, at least in Ath-
ens, was it legal for the daughters of free citizens to be employed as
prostitutes.71 As a result, respectable women became invisible, largely
removed from the high dramas of economic and political life.72 If any-
one was enslaved for debt, it was normally the debtor. Even more
dramatically, it was ordinarily male citizens who accused one another
of prostitution — with Athenian politicians regularly asserting that their
rivals, when they were young boys being plied with gifts from their
male suitors, were really trading sex for money, and hence deserved to
lose their civic freedoms.73

It might be helpful here, to return to the principles laid out in chap-
ter five. What we see above all is the erosion both of older forms of

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191

hierarchy — the Homeric world of great men with their retainers — and,
at the same time, of older forms of mutual aid, with communistic rela-
tions increasingly being confined to the interior of the household.

It's the former — the erosion of hierarchy — that really seems to
have been at stake in the "debt crises" that struck so many Greek cities
around 600 bc, right around the time that commercial markets were
first taking shape.74 When Aristotle spoke of the Athenian poor as fall-
ing slave to the rich, what he appears to have meant was that in harsh
years, many poor farmers fell into debt; as a result they ended up as
sharecroppers on their own property, dependents. Some were even sold
abroad as slaves. This led to unrest and agitation, and also to demands
for clean slates, for the freeing of those held in bondage, and for the
redistribution of agricultural land. In a few cases it led to outright
revolution. In Megara, we are told, a radical faction that seized power
not only made interest-bearing loans illegal, but did so retroactively,
forcing creditors to make restitution of all interest they had collected
in the past.75 In other cities, populist tyrants seized power on promises
to abrogate agricultural debts.

On the face of it, all this doesn't seem all that surprising: the mo-
ment when commercial markets developed, Greek cities quickly devel-
oped all the social problems that had been plaguing Middle Eastern
cities for millennia: debt crises, debt resistance, political unrest. In real-
ity, things are not so clear. For one thing, for the poor to be "enslaved
to the rich," in the loose sense that Aristotle seems to be using, was
hardly a new development. Even in Homeric society, it was assumed
as a matter of course that rich men would live surrounded by depen-
dents and retainers, drawn from the ranks of the dependent poor. The
critical thing, though, about such relations of patronage is that they
involved responsibilities on both sides. A noble warrior and his humble
client were assumed to be fundamentally different sorts of people, but
both were also expected to take account of each other's (fundamentally
different) needs. Transforming patronage into debt relations — treating,
say, an advance of seed corn as a loan, let alone an interest-bearing
loan — changed all this.76 What's more, it did so in two completely
contradictory respects. On the one hand, a loan implies no ongoing
responsibilities on the part of the creditor. On the other, as I have con-
tinually emphasized, a loan does assume a certain formal, legal equality
between contractor and contractee. It assumes that they are, at least
in some ways on some level, fundamentally the same kind of person.
This is certainly about the most ruthless and violent form of equality
imaginable. But the fact it was conceived as equality before the market
made such arrangements even more difficult to endure.77

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The same tensions can be observed between neighbors, who in
farming communities tend to give, lend, and borrow things amongst
themselves — anything from sieves and sickles, to charcoal and cooking
oil, to seed corn or oxen for plowing. On the one hand, such giving
and lending were considered essential parts of the basic fabric of hu-
man sociability in farm communities, on the other, overly demanding
neighbors were a notorious irritant — one that could only have grown
worse when all parties are aware of precisely how much it would have
cost to buy or rent the same items that were being given away. Again,
one of the best ways to get a sense of what were considered everyday
dilemmas for Mediterranean peasants is to look at jokes. Late stories
from across the Aegean in Turkey echo exactly the same concerns:

Nasruddin's neighbor once came by ask if he could borrow his
donkey for an unexpected errand. Nasruddin obliged, but the
next day the neighbor was back again — he needed to take some
grain to be milled. Before long he was showing up almost every
morning, barely feeling he needed a pretext. Finally, Nasruddin
got fed up, and one morning told him his brother had already
come by and taken the donkey.

Just as the neighbor was leaving he heard a loud braying
sound from the yard.

"Hey, I thought you said the donkey wasn't here!"

"Look, who are you going to believe?" asked Nasruddin.
"Me, or some animal?"

With the appearance of money, it could also become unclear what
was a gift, and what a loan. On the one hand, even with gifts, it was
always considered best to return something slightly better than one had
received.78 On the other hand, friends do not charge one another inter-
est, and any suggestion that they might was sure to rankle. So what's
the difference between a generous return gift and an interest payment?
This is the basis of one of the most famous Nasruddin stories, one that
appears to have provided centuries of amusement for peasants across
the Mediterranean basin and adjoining regions. (It is also, I might
note, a play on the fact that in many Mediterranean languages, Greek
included, the word for "interest" literally means "offspring.")

One day Nasruddin's neighbor, a notorious miser, came by
to announce he was throwing a party for some friends. Could
he borrow some of Nasruddin's pots? Nasruddin didn't have
many but said he was happy to lend whatever he had. The next

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193

day the miser returned, carrying Nasruddin's three pots, and
one tiny additional one.

"What's that?" asked Nasrudddin.

"Oh, that's the offspring of the pots. They reproduced dur-
ing the time they were with me."

Nasruddin shrugged and accepted them, and the miser left
happy that he had established a principle of interest. A month
later Nasruddin was throwing a party, and he went over to
borrow a dozen pieces of his neighbor's much more luxurious
crockery. The miser complied. Then he waited a day. And then
another . . .

On the third day, the miser came by and asked what had
happened to his pots.

"Oh, them?" Nasruddin said sadly. "It was a terrible trag-
edy. They died."7'

In a heroic system, it is only debts of honor — the need to repay
gifts, to exact revenge, to rescue or redeem friends or kinsmen fallen
prisoner — that operate completely under a logic of tit-for-tat exchange.
Honor is the same as credit; it's one's ability to keep one's promises,
but also, in the case of a wrong, to "get even." As the last phrase
implies, it was a monetary logic, but money, or anyway money-like
relations, are confined to this. Gradually, subtly, without anyone com-
pletely understanding the full implications of what was happening,
what had been the essence of moral relations turned into the means for
every sort of dishonest stratagem.

We know a little about it from trial speeches, many of which have
survived. Here is one from the fourth century, probably around 365
bc. Apollodorus was a prosperous but low-born Athenian citizen (his
father, a banker, had begun life as a slave) who, like many such gentle-
men, had acquired a country estate. There he made a point of making
friends with his closest neighbor, Nicostratus, a man of aristocratic
origins, though currently of somewhat straitened means. They acted as
neighbors normally did, giving and borrowing small sums, lending each
other animals or slaves, minding each other's property when one was
away. Then one day Nicostratus ran into a piece of terrible luck. While
trying to track down some runaway slaves, he was himself captured by
pirates and held for ransom at the slave market on the island of Aegi-
na. His relatives could only assemble part of the price, so he was forced
:o borrow the rest from strangers in the market. These appear to have
reen professionals who specialized in such loans, and their terms were
notoriously harsh: if not repaid in thirty days, the sum doubled; if not

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repaid at all, the debtor became the slave of the man who had put up
the money for his redemption.

Tearfully, Nicostratus appealed to his neighbor. All his posses-
sions were already pledged now to one creditor or another; he knew
Apollodorus wouldn't have that much cash lying around, but could
his dear friend possibly put up something of his own by way of secu-
rity? Apollodorus was moved. He would be happy to forgive all debts
Nicostratus already owed him, but the rest would be difficult. Still, he
would do his best. In the end, he arranged to himself take a loan from
an acquaintance of his, Arcesas, on the security of his town-house,
at 16 percent annual interest, so as to be able to satisfy Nicostratus's
creditors while Nicostratus himself arranged a friendly, no-interest era-
nos loan from his own relatives. But before long, Apollodorus began
to realize that he had been set up. The impoverished aristocrat had
decided to take advantage of his nouveau-riche neighbor; he was actu-
ally working with Arcesas and some of Apollodorus's enemies to have
him falsely declared a "public debtor," that is, someone who had de-
faulted on an obligation to the public treasury. This would have first
of all meant that he would lose his right to take anyone to court (i.e.,
his deceivers, to recover the money), and second, would give them a
pretext to raid his house to remove his furniture and other possessions.
Presumably, Nicostratus had never felt especially comfortable being in
debt to a man he considered his social inferior. Rather like Egil the
Viking, who would rather kill his friend Einar than have to compose an
elegy thanking him for an overly magnificent gift, Nicostratus appears
to have concluded that it was more honorable, or anyway more bear-
able, to try to extract the money from his lowly friend through force
and fraud than to spend the rest of his life feeling beholden. Before
long, things had indeed descended to outright physical violence, and
the whole matter ended up in court.80

The story has everything. We see mutual aid: the communism of
the prosperous, the expectation that if the need is great enough, or the
cost manageable enough, friends and neighbors will help one another.81
And most did, in fact, have circles of people who would pool money if
a crisis did arise: whether a wedding, a famine, or a ransom. We also
see the omnipresent danger of predatory violence that reduces human
beings to commodities, and by doing so introduces the most cutthroat
kinds of calculation into economic life — not just on the part of the
pirates, but even more so, perhaps, on those moneylenders lurking
by the market offering stiff credit terms to anyone who came to ran-
som their relatives but found themselves caught short, and who then
could appeal to the state to allow them to hire men with weapons to

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enforce the contract. We see heroic pride, which sees too great an act
of generosity as itself a kind of belittling assault. We see the ambigu-
ity among gifts, loans, and commercial credit arrangements. Neither
does the way things played out in this case seem particularly unusual,
except perhaps for Nicostratus's extraordinarily ingratitude. Prominent
Athenians were always borrowing money to pursue their political proj-
ects; less-prominent ones were constantly worrying about their debts,
or how to collect from their own debtors.82 Finally, there is another,
subtler element here. While everyday market transactions, at shops
or stalls in the agora, were here as elsewhere typically conducted on
credit, the mass production of coinage permitted a degree of anonymity
for transactions that, in a pure credit regime, simply could not exist.83
Pirates and kidnappers do business in cash — yet the loan sharks at Ae-
gina's marketplace could not have operated without them. It is on this
same combination of illegal cash business, usually involving violence,
and extremely harsh credit terms, also enforced through violence, that
innumerable criminal underworlds have been constructed ever since.

In Athens, the result was extreme moral confusion. The language
of money, debt, and finance provided powerful — and ultimately
irresistible — ways to think about moral problems. Much as in Vedic
India, people started talking about life as a debt to the gods, of ob-
ligations as debts, about literal debts of honor, of debt as sin and of
vengeance as debt collection.84 Yet if debt was morality — and certainly
at the very least it was in the interest of creditors, who often had little
legal recourse to compel debtors to pay up, to insist that it was — what
was one to make of the fact that money, that very thing that seemed
capable of turning morality into an exact and quantifiable science, also
seemed to encourage the very worst sorts of behavior?

It is from such dilemmas that modern ethics and moral philoso-
phy begin. I think this is true quite literally. Consider Plato's Repub-
lic, another product of fourth-century Athens. The book begins when
Socrates visits an old friend, a wealthy arms manufacturer, at the port
of Piraeus. They get into a discussion of justice, which begins when the
old man proposes that money cannot be a bad thing, since it allows
those who have it to be just, and that justice consists in two things:
telling the truth, and always paying one's debts.85 The proposal is easily
demolished. What, Socrates asks, if someone lent you his sword, went
violently insane, and then asked for it back (presumably, so he could
kill someone)? Clearly it can never be right to arm a lunatic whatever

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the circumstances."6 The old man cheerfully shrugs the problem off
and heads off to attend to some ritual, leaving his son to carry on
the argument.

The son, Polemarchus, switches gears: clearly his father hadn't
meant "debt" in the literal sense of returning what one has borrowed.
He meant it more in the sense of giving people what is owed to them;
repaying good with good and evil with evil; helping one's friends and
hurting one's enemies. Demolishing this one takes a little more work
(are we saying justice plays no part in determining who one's friends
and enemies are? If so, wouldn't someone who decided he had no
friends, and therefore tried to hurt everyone, be a just man? And even
if you did have some way to say for certain that one's enemy really is
an intrinsically bad person and deserves harm, by harming him, do you
not thus make him worse? Can turning bad people into even worse
people really be an example of justice?) but it is eventually accom-
plished. At this point a Sophist, Thrasymachos, enters and denounces
all of the debaters as milky-eyed idealists. In reality, he says, all talk
of "justice" is mere political pretext, designed to justify the interests of
the powerful. And so it should be, because insofar as justice exists, it
is simply that: the interest of the powerful. Rulers are like shepherds.
We like to think of them as benevolently tending their flocks, but what
do shepherds ultimately do with sheep? They kill and eat them, or sell
the meat for money. Socrates responds by pointing out that Thrasy-
machos is confusing the art of tending sheep with the art of profiting
from them. The art of medicine aims to improve health, whether or not
doctors get paid for practicing it. The art of shepherding aims to ensure
the well-being of sheep, whether or not the shepherd (or his employer)
is also a businessman who knows how to extract a profit from them.
Just so with the art of governance. If such an art exists, it must have
its own intrinsic aim apart from any profit one might also get from it,
and what can this be other than the establishment of social justice? It's
only the existence of money, Socrates suggests, that allows us to imag-
ine that words like "power" and "interest" refer to universal realities
that can be pursued in their own right, let alone that all pursuits are
really ultimately the pursuit of power, advantage, or self-interest.87 The
question, he said, is how to ensure that those who hold political office
will do so not for gain, but rather for honor.

I will leave off here. As we all know, Socrates eventually gets
around to offering some political proposals of his own, involving phi-
losopher kings; the abolition of marriage, the family, and private prop-
erty; selective human breeding boards. (Clearly, the book was meant
to annoy its readers, and for more than two thousand years, it has

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succeeded brilliantly.) What I want to emphasize, though, is the degree
to which what we consider our core tradition of moral and political
theory today springs from this question: What does it mean to pay
our debts? Plato presents us first with the simple, literal businessman's
view. When this proves inadequate, he allows it to be reframed in he-
roic terms. Perhaps all debts are really debts of honor after all.88 But
heroic honor no longer works in a world where (as Apollodorus sadly
discovered) commerce, class, and profit have so confused everything
that peoples' true motives are never clear. How do we even know who
our enemies are? Finally, Plato presents us with cynical realpolitik.
Maybe nobody really owes anything to anybody. Maybe those who
pursue profit for its own sake have it right after all. But even that does
not hold up. We are left with a certainty that existing standards are
incoherent and self-contradictory, and that some sort of radical break
would be required in order to create a world that makes any logical
sense. But most of those who seriously consider a radical break along
the lines that Plato suggested have come to the conclusion that there
might be far worse things than moral incoherence. And there we have
stood, ever since, in the midst of an insoluble dilemma.

It's not surprising that these issues weighed on Plato's mind. Not seven
years before, he had taken an ill-fated sea cruise and wound up being
captured and, supposedly like Nicostratus, offered for sale on the auc-
tion block at Aegina. However, Plato had better luck. A Libyan phi-
losopher of the Epicurean school, one Annikeris, happened to be in the
market at the time. He recognized Plato and ransomed him. Plato felt
honor-bound to try to repay him, and his Athenian friends assembled
twenty minas in silver with which to do so, but Annikeris refused to
accept the money, insisting that it was his honor to be able to benefit a
fellow lover of wisdom.89 As indeed it was: Annikeris has been remem-
bered, and celebrated, for his generosity ever since. Plato went on to
use the twenty minas to buy land for a school, the famous Academy.
And while he hardly showed the same ingratitude as Nicostratus, one
does rather get the impression that even Plato wasn't especially happy
about the fact that his subsequent career was, in a sense, made pos-
sible by his debt to a man who he probably considered an extremely
minor philosopher — and Annikeris wasn't even Greek! At least this
would help explain why Plato, otherwise the inveterate name-dropper,
never mentioned Annikeris. We know of his existence only from later
biographers.90

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Ancient Rome (Property and Freedom)

If Plato's work testifies to how profoundly the moral confusion intro-
duced by debt has shaped our traditions of thought, Roman law reveals
how much it has shaped even our most familiar institutions.

German legal theorist Rudolf von Jhering famously remarked
that ancient Rome had conquered the world three times: the first time
through its armies, the second through its religion, the third through its
laws." He might have added: each time more thoroughly. The Empire,
after all, only spanned a tiny portion of the globe; the Roman Catholic
Church has spread farther; Roman law has come to provide the lan-
guage and conceptual underpinnings of legal and constitutional orders
everywhere. Law students from South Africa to Peru are expected to
spend a good deal of their time memorizing technical terms in Latin,
and it is Roman law that provides almost all our basic conceptions
about contract, obligation, torts, property, and jurisdiction — and, in
a broader sense, of citizenship, rights, and liberties on which political
life, too, is based.

This was possible, Jhering held, because, the Romans were the first
to turn jurisprudence into a genuine science. Perhaps — but for all that,
it remains true that Roman law has a few notoriously quirky features,
some so odd that they have confused and confounded jurists ever since
Roman law was revived in Italian universities in the High Middle Ages.
The most notorious of these is the unique way it defines property. In
Roman law, property, or dominium, is a relation between a person
and a thing, characterized by absolute power of that person over that
thing. This definition has caused endless conceptual problems. First of
all, it's not clear what it would mean for a human to have a "relation"
with an inanimate object. Human beings can have relations with one
another. But what would it mean to have a "relation" with a thing?
And if one did, what would it mean to give that relation legal standing?
A simple illustration will suffice: imagine a man trapped on a desert
island. He might develop extremely personal relationships with, say,
the palm trees growing on that island. If he's there too long, he might
well end up giving them all names and spending half his time having
imaginary conversations with them. Still, does he own them? The ques-
tion is meaningless. There's no need to worry about property rights if
noone else is there.

Clearly, then, property is not really a relation between a person
and a thing. It's an understanding or arrangement between people con-
cerning things. The only reason that we sometimes fail to notice this is

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that in many cases — particularly when we are talking about our rights
over our shoes, or cars, or power tools — we are talking of rights held,
as English law puts it, "against all the world" — that is, understandings
between ourselves and everyone else on the planet, that they will all
refrain from interfering with our possessions, and therefore allow us
to treat them more or less any way we like. A relation between one
person and everyone else on the planet is, understandably, difficult to
conceive as such. It's easier to think of it as a relationship with a thing.
But even here, in practice this freedom to do as one likes turns out to
be fairly limited. To say that the fact that I own a chainsaw gives me
an "absolute power" to do anything I want with it is obviously absurd.
Almost anything I might think of doing with a chainsaw outside my
own home or land is likely to be illegal, and there are only a limited
number of things I can really do with it inside. The only thing "abso-
lute" about my rights to a chainsaw is my right to prevent anyone else
from using it.92

Nonetheless, Roman law does insist that the basic form of property
is private property, and that private property is the owner's absolute
power to do anything he wants with his possessions. Twelfth-century
Medieval jurists came to refine this into three principles, usus (use of
the thing), fructus (fruits, i.e., enjoyment of the products of the thing),
and abusus (abuse or destruction of the thing), but Roman jurists
weren't even interested in specifying that much, since in a certain way,
they saw the details as lying entirely outside the domain of law. In fact,
scholars have spent a great deal of time debating whether Roman au-
thors actually considered private property to be a right (/ws),93 for the
very reason that rights were ultimately based on agreements between
people, and one's power to dispose of one's property was not: it was
just one's natural ability to do whatever one pleased when social im-
pediments were absent.94

If you think about it, this really is an odd place to start in devel-
oping a theory of property law. It is probably fair to say that, in any
part of the world, in any period of history, whether in ancient Japan
or Machu Picchu, someone who had a piece of string was free to twist
it, knot it, pull it apart, or toss it in the fire more or less as they had
a mind to. Nowhere else did legal theorists appear to have found this
fact in any way interesting or important. Certainly no other tradition
makes it the very basis of property law — since, after all, doing so made
almost all actual law little more than a series of exceptions.

How did this come about? And why? The most convincing expla-
nation I've seen is Orlando Patterson's: the notion of absolute private
property is really derived from slavery. One can imagine property not

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as a relation between people, but as a relation between a person and
a thing, if one's starting point is a relation between two people, one
of whom is also a thing. (This is how slaves were defined in Roman
law: they were people who were also a res, a thing.)95 The emphasis on
absolute power begins to make sense as well.96

The word dominium, meaning absolute private property, was not
particularly ancient.97 It only appears in Latin in the late Republic,
right around the time when hundreds of thousands of captive laborers
were pouring into Italy, and when Rome, as a consequence, was be-
coming a genuine slave society.98 By 50 bc, Roman writers had come to
simply assume that workers — whether the farmworkers harvesting peas
in countryside plantations, the muleteers delivering those peas to shops
in the city, or the clerks keeping count of them — were someone else's
property. The existence of millions of creatures who were simultane-
ously persons and things created endless legal problems, and much of
the creative genius of Roman law was spent in working out the endless
ramifications. One need only flip open a casebook of Roman law to get
a sense of these. This is from the second-century jurist Ulpian:

Again, Mela writes that if some persons were playing ball and
one of them, hitting the ball quite hard, knocked it against a
barber's hands, and in this way the throat of a slave, whom the
barber was shaving, was cut by a razor pressed against it, then
who is the person with whom the culpability lay is liable under
the Lex Aquilia [the law of civil damages]? Proclus says that
the culpability lies with the barber; and indeed, if he was shav-
ing at a place where games are normally played or where traffic
was heavy, there is reason to fault him. But it would not be
badly held that if someone entrusts himself to a barber who has
a chair in a dangerous place, he should have himself to blame.99

In other words, the master cannot claim civil damages against the
ballplayers or barber for destroying his property if the real problem
was that he bought a stupid slave. Many of these debates might strike
us as profoundly exotic (could you be accused of theft for merely con-
vincing a slave to run away? If someone killed a slave who was also
your son, could you take your sentimental feelings toward him into
account in assessing damages, or would you have to stick to his market
value?) — but our contemporary tradition of jurisprudence is founded
directly on such debates.100

As for dominium, the word is derived from dominus, meaning "mas-
ter" or "slave-owner," but ultimately from domus, meaning "house"

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or "household." It's of course related to the English term "domestic,"
which even now can be used either to mean "pertaining to private life,"
or to refer to a servant who cleans the house. Domus overlaps some-
what in meaning with familia, "family" — but, as proponents of "family
values" might be interested to know, familia itself ultimately derives
from the word famulus, meaning "slave." A family was originally all
those people under the domestic authority of a paterfamilias, and that
authority was, in early Roman law at least, conceived as absolute.101 A
man did not have total power over his wife, since she was still to some
degree under the protection of her own father, but his children, slaves,
and other dependents were his to do with as he wanted — at least in
early Roman law, he was perfectly free to whip, torture, or sell them.
A father could even execute his children, provided he found them to
have committed capital crimes.102 With his slaves, he didn't even need
that excuse.

In creating a notion of dominium, then, and thus creating the
modern principle of absolute private property, what Roman jurists
were doing first of all was taking a principle of domestic authority, of
absolute power over people, defining some of those people (slaves) as
things, and then extending the logic that originally applied to slaves to
geese, chariots, barns, jewelry boxes, and so forth — that is, to every
other sort of thing that the law had anything to do with.

It was quite extraordinary, even in the ancient world, for a father
to have the right to execute his slaves — let alone his children. No one
is quite sure why the early Romans were so extreme in this regard.
It's telling, though, that the earliest Roman debt law was equally un-
usual in its harshness, since it allowed creditors to execute insolvent
debtors.103 The early history of Rome, like the histories of early Greek
city-states, was one of continual political struggle between creditors
and debtors, until the Roman elite eventually figured out the principle
that most successful Mediterranean elites learned: that a free peasantry
means a more effective army, and that conquering armies can provide
war captives who can do anything debt bondsmen used to do, and
therefore, a social compromise — allowing limited popular representa-
tion, banning debt slavery, channeling some of the fruits of empire into
social-welfare payments — was actually in their interest. Presumably,
the absolute power of fathers developed as part of this whole constel-
lation in the same way as we've seen elsewhere. Debt bondage reduced
family relations to relations of property; social reforms retained the
new power of fathers but protected them from debt. At the same time,
the increasing influx of slaves soon meant that any even moderately
prosperous household was likely to contain slaves. This meant that

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the logic of conquest extended into the most intimate aspects of ev-
eryday life. Conquered people poured one's bath and combed one's
hair. Conquered tutors taught one's children about poetry. Since slaves
were sexually available to owners and their families, as well as to their
friends and dinner guests, it is likely that most Romans' first sexual
experience was with a boy or girl whose legal status was conceived as
that of a defeated enemy.104

Over time, this became more and more of a legal fiction — actual
slaves were much more likely to have been paupers sold by parents,
unfortunates kidnapped by pirates or bandits, victims of wars or judi-
cial process among barbarians at the fringes of the empire, or children
of other slaves.105 Still, the fiction was maintained.

What made Roman slavery so unusual, in historical terms, was a
conjuncture of two factors. One was its very arbitrariness. In dramatic
contrast with, say plantation slavery in the Americas, there was no
sense that certain people were naturally inferior and therefore destined
to be slaves. Instead, slavery was seen as a misfortune that could hap-
pen to anyone.106 As a result, there was no reason that a slave might
not be in every way superior to his or her master: smarter, with a finer
sense of morality, better taste, and a greater understanding of philoso-
phy. The master might even be willing to acknowledge this. There was
no reason not to, since it had no effect on the nature of the relation-
ship, which was simply one of power.

The second was the absolute nature of this power. There are many
places where slaves are conceived as war captives, and masters as con-
querors with absolute powers of life and death — but usually, this is
something of an abstract principle. Almost everywhere, governments
quickly move to limit such rights. At the very least, emperors and kings
will insist that they are the only ones with the power to order others
put to death.107 But under the Roman Republic there was no emperor;
insofar as there was a sovereign body, it was the collective body of the
slave-owners themselves. Only under the early Empire do we see any
legislation limiting what owners could do to their (human) property:
the first being a law of the time of the emperor Tiberius (dated 16 ad)
stipulating that a master had to obtain a magistrate's permission before
ordering a slave publicly torn apart by wild beasts.108 However, the
absolute nature of the master's power — the fact that in this context, he
effectively was the state — also meant that there were also, at first, no
restrictions on manumission: a master could liberate his slave, or even
adopt him or her, whereby — since liberty meant nothing outside of
membership in a community — that slave automatically became a Ro-
man citizen. This led to some very peculiar arrangements. In the first

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century ad, for example, it was not uncommon for educated Greeks
to have themselves sold into slavery to some wealthy Roman in need
of a secretary, entrust the money to a close friend or family member,
and then, after a certain interval, buy themselves back, thus obtaining
Roman citizenship. This despite the fact that, during such time as they
were slaves, if their owner decided to, say, cut one of his secretary's
feet off, legally, he would have been perfectly free to do so.109

The relation of dominus and slave thus brought a relation of con-
quest, of absolute political power into the household (in fact, made it
the essence of the household). It's important to emphasize that this was
not a moral relation on either side. A well-known legal formula, attrib-
uted to a Republican lawyer named Quintus Haterius, brings this home
with particular clarity. With the Romans as with the Athenians, for a
male to be the object of sexual penetration was considered unbefitting
to a citizen. In defending a freedman accused of continuing to provide
sexual favors to his former master, Haterius coined an aphorism that
was later to become something of a popular dirty joke: impudicitia in
ingenuo crimen est, in servo necessitas, in liberto officium ("to be the
object of anal penetration is a crime in the freeborn, a necessity for a
slave, a duty for a freedman").110 What is significant here is that sexual
subservience is considered the "duty" only of the freedman. It is not
considered the "duty" of a slave. This is because, again, slavery was
not a moral relation. The master could do what he liked, and there was
nothing the slave could do about it.

I I I I I

The most insidious effect of Roman slavery, however, is that through
Roman law, it has come to play havoc with our idea of human free-
dom. The meaning of the Roman word libertas itself changed dra-
matically over time. As everywhere in the ancient world, to be "free"
meant, first and foremost, not to be a slave. Since slavery means above
all the annihilation of social ties and the ability to form them, free-
dom meant the capacity to make and maintain moral commitments to
others. The English word "free," for instance, is derived from a Ger-
man root meaning "friend," since to be free meant to be able to make
friends, to keep promises, to live within a community of equals. This
is why freed slaves in Rome became citizens: to be free, by definition,
meant to be anchored in a civic community, with all the rights and
responsibilities that this entailed.111

By the second century ad, however, this had begun to change.
The jurists gradually redefined libertas until it became almost

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indistinguishable from the power of the master. It was the right to do
absolutely anything, with the exception, again, of all those things one
could not do. Actually, in the Digest, the definitions of freedom and
slavery appear back to back:

Freedom is .the natural faculty to do whatever one wishes that
is not prevented by force or law. Slavery is an institution ac-
cording to the law of nations whereby one person becomes
private property {dominium) of another, contrary to nature."2

Medieval commentators immediately noticed the problem here.113
But wouldn't this mean that everyone is free? After all, even slaves are
free to do absolutely anything they're actually permitted to do. To say
a slave is free (except insofar as he isn't) is a bit like saying the earth
is square (except insofar as it is round), or that the sun is blue (except
insofar as it is yellow), or, again, that we have an absolute right to
do anything we wish with our chainsaw (except those things that we
can't.)

In fact, the definition introduces all sorts of complications. If free-
dom is natural, then surely slavery is unnatural, but if freedom and
slavery are just matters of degree, then, logically, would not all restric-
tions on freedom be to some degree unnatural? Would not that imply
that society, social rules, in fact even property rights, are unnatural as
well? This is precisely what many Roman jurists did conclude — that
is, when they did venture to comment on such abstract matters, which
was only rarely. Originally, human beings lived in a state of nature
where all things were held in common; it was war that first divided up
the world, and the resultant "law of nations," the common usages of
mankind that regulate such matters as conquest, slavery, treaties, and
borders, that was first responsible for inequalities of property as well.114

This in turn meant that there was no intrinsic difference between
private property and political power — at least, insofar as that power
was based in violence. As time went on, Roman emperors also began
claiming something like dominium, insisting that within their domin-
ions, they had absolute freedom — in fact, that they were not bound by
laws."5 At the same time, as Roman society shifted from a republic of
slave-holders to arrangements that increasingly resembled later feudal
Europe, with magnates on their great estates surrounded by dependent
peasants, debt servants, and an endless variety of slaves — with whom
they could largely do as they pleased. The barbarian invasions that
overthrew the empire merely formalized the situation, largely eliminat-
ing chattel slavery, but at the same time introducing the notion that the

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noble classes were really descendants of the Germanic conquerors, and
that the common people were inherently subservient.

Still, even in this new Medieval world, the old Roman concept
of freedom remained. Freedom was simply power. When Medieval
political theorists spoke of "liberty," they were normally referring to a
lord's right to do whatever he wanted within his own domains. This
was, again, usually assumed to be not something originally established
by agreement, but a mere fact of conquest: one famous English legend
holds that when, around 1290, King Edward I asked his lords to pro-
duce documents to demonstrate by what right they held their franchises
(or "liberties"), the Earl Warenne presented the king only with his rusty
sword.116 Like Roman dominium, it was less a right than a power, and
a power exercised first and foremost over people — which is why in the
Middle Ages it was common to speak of the "liberty of the gallows,"
meaning a lord's right to maintain his own private place of execution.

By the time Roman law began to be recovered and modernized in
the twelfth century, the term dominium posed a particular problem,
since it had come, in ordinary church Latin of the time, to be used
equally for "lordship" and "private property." Medieval jurists spent a
great deal of time and argument establishing whether there was indeed
a difference between the two. It was a particularly thorny problem
because, if property rights really were, as the Digest insisted, a form of
absolute power, it was very difficult to see how anyone could have it
but a king — or even, for certain jurists, God.117

This is not the place to describe the resulting arguments, but I feel
it's important to end here because in a way, it brings us full circle and
allows us to understand precisely how Liberals like Adam Smith were
able to imagine the world the way they did. This is a tradition that
assumes that liberty is essentially the right to do what one likes with
one's own property. In fact, not only does it make property a right;
it treats rights themselves as a form of property. In a way, this is the
greatest paradox of all. We are so used to the idea of "having" rights —
that rights are something one can possess — that we rarely think about
what this might actually mean. In fact (as Medieval jurists were well
aware), one man's right is simply another's obligation. My right to free
speech is others' obligation not to punish me for speaking; my right to
a trial by a jury of my peers is the responsibility of the government to
maintain a system of jury duty. The problem is just the same as it was
with property rights: when we are talking about obligations owed by
everyone in the entire world, it's difficult to think about it that way. It's
much easier to speak of "having" rights and freedoms. Still, if freedom
is basically our right to own things, or to treat things as if we own

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them, then what would it mean to "own" a freedom — wouldn't it have
to mean that our right to own property is itself a form of property?
That does seem unnecessarily convoluted. What possible reason would
one have to want to define it this way?118

Historically, there is a simple — if somewhat disturbing — answer
to this. Those who have argued that we are the natural owners of our
rights and liberties have been mainly interested in asserting that we
should be free to give them away, or even to sell them.

Modern ideas of rights and liberties are derived from what, from
the time when Jean Gerson, Rector of the University of Paris, began
to lay them out around 1400, building on Roman law concepts, came
to be known as "natural rights theory." As Richard Tuck, the premier
historian of such ideas, has long noted, it is one of the great ironies
of history that this was always a body of theory embraced not by the
progressives of that time, but by conservatives. "For a Gersonian, lib-
erty was property and could be exchanged in the same way and in the
same terms as any other property" — sold, swapped, loaned, or other-
wise voluntarily surrendered.11' It followed that there could be nothing
intrinsically wrong with, say, debt peonage, or even slavery. And this
is exactly what natural-rights theorists came to assert. In fact, over the
next centuries, these ideas came to be developed above all in Antwerp
and Lisbon, cities at the very center of the emerging slave trade. After
all, they argued, we don't really know what's going on in the lands be-
hind places like Calabar, but there is no intrinsic reason to assume that
the vast majority of the human cargo conveyed to European ships had
not sold themselves, or been disposed of by their legal guardians, or
lost their liberty in some other perfectly legitimate fashion. No doubt
some had not, but abuses will exist in any system. The important thing
was that there was nothing inherently unnatural or illegitimate about
the idea that freedom could be sold.120

Before long, similar arguments came to be employed to justify the
absolute power of the state. Thomas Hobbes was the first to really
develop this argument in the seventeenth century, but it soon became
commonplace. Government was essentially a contract, a kind of busi-
ness arrangement, whereby citizens had voluntarily given up some of
their natural liberties to the sovereign. Finally, similar ideas have be-
come the basis of that most basic, dominant institution of our pres-
ent economic life: wage labor, which is, effectively, the renting of our
freedom in the same way that slavery can be conceived as its sale.121

It's not only our freedoms that we own; the same logic has come to
be applied even to our own bodies, which are treated, in such formu-
lations, as really no different than houses, cars, or furniture. We own

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207

ourselves, therefore outsiders have no right to trespass on us.122 Again,
this might seem an innocuous, even a positive notion, but it looks rath-
er different when we take into consideration the Roman tradition of
property on which it is based. To say that we own ourselves is, oddly
enough, to cast ourselves as both master and slave simultaneously.
"We" are both owners (exerting absolute power over our property),
and yet somehow, at the same time, the things being owned (being the
object of absolute power). The ancient Roman household, far from
having been forgotten in the mists of history, is preserved in our most
basic conception of ourselves — and, once again, just as in property
law, the result is so strangely incoherent that it spins off into endless
paradoxes the moment one tries to figure out what it would actually
mean in practice. Just as lawyers have spent a thousand years trying to
make sense of Roman property concepts, so have philosophers spent
centuries trying to understand how it could be possible for us to have a
relation of domination over ourselves. The most popular solution — to
say that each of us has something called a "mind" and that this is com-
pletely separate from something else, which we can call "the body,"
and that the first thing holds natural dominion over the second — flies in
the face of just about everything we now know about cognitive science.
It's obviously untrue, but we continue to hold onto it anyway, for the
simple reason that none of our everyday assumptions about property,
law, and freedom would make any sense without it.123

Conclusions

The first four chapters of this book describe a dilemma. We don't re-
ally know how to think about debt. Or, to be more accurate, we seem
to be trapped between imagining society in the Adam Smith mode, as a
collection of individuals whose only significant relations are with their
own possessions, happily bartering one thing for another for the sake
of mutual convenience, with debt almost entirely abolished from the
picture, and a vision in which debt is everything, the very substance of
all human relations — which of course leaves everyone with the uncom-
fortable sense that human relations are somehow an intrinsically taw-
dry business, that our very responsibilities to one another are already
somehow necessarily based in sin and crime. It's not an appealing set
of alternatives.

In the last three chapters I have tried to show that there is another
way of looking at things, and then to describe how it is that we got

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here. This is why I developed the concept of human economies: ones
in which what is considered really important about human beings is
the fact that they are each a unique nexus of relations with others —
therefore, that no one could ever be considered exactly equivalent to
anything or anyone else. In a human economy, money is not a way
of buying or trading human beings, but a way of expressing just how
much one cannot do so.

I then went on to describe how all this can begin to break down:
how humans can become objects of exchange: first, perhaps, women
given in marriage; ultimately, slaves captured in war. What all these
relations have in common, I observed, was violence. Whether it is Tiv
girls being tied up and beaten for running away from their husbands,
or husbands being herded into slave ships to die on faraway planta-
tions, that same principle always applies: it is only by the threat of
sticks, ropes, spears, and guns that one can tear people out of those
endlessly complicated webs of relationship with others (sisters, friends,
rivals . . .) that render them unique, and thus reduce them to something
that can be traded.

All of this, it is important to emphasize, can happen in places where
markets in ordinary, everyday goods — clothing, tools, foodstuffs — do
not even exist. In fact, in most human economies, one's most important
possessions could never be bought and sold for the same reasons that
people can't: they are unique objects, caught up in a web of relation-
ships with human beings.124

My old professor John Comaroff used to tell a story about car-
rying out a survey in Natal, in South Africa. He had spent most of a
week driving from homestead to homestead in a jeep with a box full
of questionnaires and a Zulu-speaking interpreter, driving past appar-
ently endless herds of cattle. After about six days, his interpreter sud-
denly started and pointed into the middle of one herd. "Look!" he said.
"That's the same cow! That one there — with the red spot on its back.
We saw it three days ago in a place ten miles from here. I wonder what
happened? Did someone get married? Or maybe there was a settlement
to some dispute."

In human economies, when this ability to rip people from their
contexts does appear, it is most often seen as an end in itself. One can
already see a hint of this among the Lele. Important men would occa-
sionally acquire war captives from far away as slaves, but it was almost
always to be sacrificed at their funeral.125 The squelching of one man's
individuality was seen as somehow swelling the reputation, the social
existence, of the other.126 In what I've been calling heroic societies, of
course this kind of addition and subtraction of honor and disgrace is

HONOR AND DEGRADATION

209

lifted from a somewhat marginal practice to become the very essence of
politics. As endless epics, sagas, and eddas attest, heroes become heroes
by making others small. In Ireland and Wales, we can observe how this
very ability to degrade others, to remove unique human beings from
their hearths and families and thus render them anonymous units of
accounting — the Irish slave-girl currency, the Welsh washerwomen — is
itself the highest expression of honor.

In heroic societies, the role of violence is not hidden — it's glorified.
Often, it can form the basis of one's most intimate relations. In the
Iliad, Achilles sees nothing shameful in his relation with his slave-girl,
Briseis, whose husband and brothers he killed; he refers to her as his
"prize of honor," but almost in the very same breath, he also insists
that, just any decent man must love and care for his household depen-
dents, "so I from my heart loved this one, even though I won her with
my spear."127

That such relations of intimacy can often develop between men of
honor and those they have stripped of their dignity, history can well at-
test. After all, the annihilation of any possibility of equality also elimi-
nates any question of debt, of any relation other than power. It allows
a certain clarity. This is presumably why emperors and kings have such
a notorious tendency to surround themselves with slaves or eunuchs.

There is something more here, though. If one looks across the ex-
panse of history, one cannot help but notice a curious sense of identi-
fication between the most exalted and the most degraded; particularly,
between emperors and kings, and slaves. Many kings surround them-
selves with slaves, appoint slave ministers — there have even been, as
with the Mamluks in Egypt, actual dynasties of slaves. Kings surround
themselves with slaves for the same reason that they surround them-
selves with eunuchs: because the slaves and criminals have no families
or friends, no possibility of other loyalties — or at least that, in prin-
ciple, they shouldn't. But in a way, kings should really be like that too.
As many an African proverb emphasizes: a proper king has no relatives
either, or at least, he acts as if he does not.128 In other words, the king
and slave are mirror images, in that unlike normal human beings who
are defined by their commitments to others, they are defined only by
relations of power. They are as close to perfectly isolated, alienated
beings as one can possibly become.

At this point we can finally see what's really at stake in our pe-
culiar habit of defining ourselves simultaneously as master and slave,
reduplicating the most brutal aspects of the ancient household in our
very concept of ourselves, as masters of our freedoms, or as owners
of our very selves. It is the only way that we can imagine ourselves as

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completely isolated beings. There is a direct line from the new Roman
conception of liberty — not as the ability to form mutual relationships
with others, but as the kind of absolute power of "use and abuse"
over the conquered chattel who make up the bulk of a wealthy Roman
man's household — to the strange fantasies of liberal philosophers like
Hobbes, Locke, and Smith, about the origins of human society in some
collection of thirty- or forty-year-old males who seem to have sprung
from the earth fully formed, then have to decide whether to kill each
other or begin to swap beaver pelts.129

European and American intellectuals, it is true, have spent much
of the last two hundred years trying to flee from the more disturbing
implications of this tradition of thought. Thomas Jefferson, that owner
of many slaves, chose to begin the Declaration of Independence by di-
rectly contradicting the moral basis of slavery, writing "we hold these
truths to be self-evident, that all men 'are created equal, and that they
are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable Rights . . ." —
thus undercutting simultaneously any argument that Africans were
racially inferior, and also that they or their ancestors could ever have
been justly and legally deprived of their freedom. In doing so, however,
he did not propose some radically new conception of rights and liber-
ties. Neither have subsequent political philosophers. For the most part,
we've just kept the old ones, but with the word "not" inserted here and
there. Most of our most precious rights and freedoms are a series of
exceptions to an overall moral and legal framework that suggests we
shouldn't really have them in the first place.

Formal slavery has been eliminated, but (as anyone who works
from nine to five can testify) the idea that you can alienate your liberty,
at least temporarily, endures. In fact, it determines what most of us
have to do for most of our waking hours, except, usually, on weekends.
The violence has been largely pushed out of sight.130 But this is largely
because we're no longer able to imagine what a world based on social
arrangements that did not require the continual threat of tasers and
surveillance cameras would even look like.

Chapter Eight
CREDIT VERSUS BULLION

AND THE CYCLES OF HISTORY

Bullion is the accessory of war, and not
of peaceful trade.

— Geoffrey W. Gardiner

ONE MIGHT WELL ASK: If our political and legal ideas really are
founded on the logic of slavery, then how did we ever eliminate slavery?
Of course, a cynic might argue that we haven't; we've just relabeled it.
The cynic would have a point: an ancient Greek would certainly have
seen the distinction between a slave and an indebted wage laborer as,
at best, a legalistic nicety. 1 Still, even the elimination of formal chat-
tel slavery has to be considered a remarkable achievement, and it is
worthwhile to wonder how it was accomplished. Especially since it was
not just accomplished once. The truly remarkable thing, if one consults
the historical record, is that slavery has been eliminated — or effectively
eliminated — many times in human history.

In Europe, for instance, the institution largely vanished in the
centuries following the collapse of the Roman empire — an historical
achievement rarely recognized by those of us used to referring to these
events as the beginning of "the Dark Ages."2 No one is quite sure how
it happened. Most agree that the spread of Christianity must have had
something to do with it, but that can't have been the direct cause, since
the Church itself was never explicitly opposed to the institution and
in many cases defended it. Instead, the abolition appears to have hap-
pened despite the attitudes of both the intellectuals and the political
authorities of the time. Yet it did happen, and it had lasting effects.
On the popular level, slavery remained so universally detested that
even a thousand years later, when European merchants started try-
ing to revive the trade, they discovered that their compatriots would

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not countenance slaveholding in their own countries — one reason why
planters were eventually obliged to acquire their slaves in Africa and
set up plantations in the New World.3 It is one of the great ironies
of history that modern racism — probably the single greatest evil of
our last two centuries — had to be invented largely because Europeans
continued to refuse to listen to the arguments of the intellectuals and
jurists and did not accept that anyone they believed to be a full and
equal human being could ever be justifiably enslaved.

What's more, the demise of ancient slavery was not limited to
Europe. Remarkably, right around the same time — in the years around
600 ad — we find almost exactly the same thing happening in India and
China, where, over the course of centuries, amidst much unrest and
confusion, chattel slavery largely ceased to exist. What all this suggests
is that moments of historical opportunity — moments when meaningful
change is possible — follow a distinct, even a cyclical pattern, one that
has long been far more coordinated across geographical space than we
would ever have imagined. There is a shape to the past, and it is only
by understanding it that we can begin to have a sense of the historical
opportunities that exist in the present.

The easiest way to make these cycles visible is to reexamine exactly the
phenomenon we've been concerned with over the course of this book:
the history of money, debt, and credit. The moment we begin to map
the history of money across the last five thousand years of Eurasian
history, startling patterns begin to emerge. In the case of money, one
event stands out above all others: the invention of coinage. Coinage
appears to have arisen independently in three different places, almost
simultaneously: on the Great Plain of northern China, in the Ganges
river valley of northeast India, and in the lands surrounding the Aegean
Sea, in each case, between roughly 600 and 500 bc. This wasn't due to
some sudden technological innovation: the technologies used in mak-
ing the first coins were, in each case, entirely different.4 It was a social
transformation. Why this happened in exactly this way is an historical
mystery. But this much we know: for some reason, in Lydia, India, and
China, local rulers decided that whatever longstanding credit systems
had existed in their kingdoms were no longer adequate, and they began
to issue tiny pieces of precious metals — metals that had previously been
used largely in international commerce, in ingot form — and to encour-
age their subjects to use them in day-to-day transactions.

CREDIT VERSUS BULLION

213

From there, the innovation spread. For more than a thousand
years, states everywhere started issuing their own coinage. But then,
right around 600 ad, about the time that slavery was disappearing, the
whole trend was suddenly thrown into reverse. Cash dried up. Every-
where, there was a movement back to credit once again.

If we look at Eurasian history over the course of the last five thou-
sand years, what we see is a broad alternation between periods domi-
nated by credit money and periods in which gold and silver come to
dominate — that is, those during which at least a large share of transac-
tions were conducted with pieces of valuable metal being passed from
hand to hand.

Why? The single most important factor would appear to be war.
Bullion predominates, above all, in periods of generalized violence.
There's a very simple reason for that. Gold and silver coins are distin-
guished from credit arrangements by one spectacular feature: they can
be stolen. A debt is, by definition, a record, as well as a relation of
trust. Someone accepting gold or silver in exchange for merchandise,
on the other hand, need trust nothing more than the accuracy of the
scales, the quality of the metal, and the likelihood that someone else
will be willing to accept it. In a world where war and the threat of
violence are everywhere — and this appears to have been an equally ac-
curate description of Warring States China, Iron Age Greece, and pre-
Mauryan India — there are obvious advantages to making one's trans-
actions simple. This is all the more true when dealing with soldiers.
On the one hand, soldiers tend to have access to a great deal of loot,
much of which consists of gold and silver, and will always seek a way
to trade it for the better things in life. On the other, a heavily armed
itinerant soldier is the very definition of a poor credit risk. The econo-
mists' barter scenario might be absurd when applied to transactions
between neighbors in the same small rural community, but when deal-
ing with a transaction between the resident of such a community and
a passing mercenary, it suddenly begins to make a great deal of sense.

For much of human history, then, an ingot of gold of silver,
stamped or not, has served the same role as the contemporary drug
dealer's suitcase full of unmarked bills: an object without a history,
valuable because one knows it will be accepted in exchange for other
goods just about anywhere, no questions asked. As a result, while
credit systems tend to dominate in periods of relative social peace, or
across networks of trust (whether created by states or, in most periods,
transnational institutions like merchant guilds or communities of faith),
in periods characterized by widespread war and plunder, they tend to
be replaced by precious metal. What's more, while predatory lending

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goes on in every period of human history, the resulting debt crises ap-
pear to have the most damaging effects at times when money is most
easily convertible into cash.

As a starting point to any attempt to discern the great rhythms
that define the current historical moment, let me propose the following
breakdown of Eurasian history according to the alternation between
periods of virtual and metal money. The cycle begins with the Age of
the First Agrarian Empires (3500-800 bc), dominated by virtual credit
money. This is followed by the Axial Age (800 BC-600 ad), which will
be covered in the next chapter, and which saw the rise of coinage and
a general shift to metal bullion. The Middle Ages (600-1450 ad), which
saw a return to virtual credit money, will be covered in chapter 10;
chapter 11 will cover the next turn of the cycle, the Age of Capitalist
Empires, which began around 1450 with a massive planetary switch
back to gold and silver bullion, and which could only really be said
to have ended in 1971, when Richard Nixon announced that the U.S.
dollar would no longer be redeemable in gold. This marked the begin-
ning of yet another phase of virtual money, one which has only just
begun, and whose ultimate contours are, necessarily, invisible. Chapter
12, the final chapter, will be devoted to applying the insights of history
to understanding what it might mean and the opportunities it might
throw open.

Mesopotamia
(3500-800 BC)

We have already had occasion to note the predominance of credit
money in Mesopotamia, the earliest urban civilization that we know
about. In the great temple and palace complexes, not only did money
serve largely as an accounting measure rather than physically changing
hands, merchants and tradespeople developed credit arrangements of
their own. Most of these took the physical form of clay tablets, in-
scribed with some obligation of future payment, that were then sealed
inside clay envelopes and marked with the borrower's seal. The credi-
tor would keep the envelope as a surety, and it would be broken open
on repayment. In some times or places at least, these bullae appear to
have become what we would now call negotiable instruments, since
the tablet inside did not simply record a promise to pay the original
lender, but was designated "to the bearer" — in other words, a tablet
recording a debt of five shekels of silver (at prevailing rates of interest)

CREDIT VERSUS BULLION

215

could circulate as the equivalent of a five-shekel promissory note — that
is, as money.5

We don't know how often this happened; how many hands such
tablets would typically pass through, how many transactions were
based on credit, how often merchants actually did weigh out silver in
rough chunks to buy and sell their merchandise, or when they were
most likely to do so. No doubt all this varied over time. Promissory
notes usually circulated within merchant guilds, or between inhabitants
of the relatively well-off urban neighborhoods where people knew one
another well enough to trust them to be accountable, but not so well
that they could rely on one another for more traditional forms of mu-
tual aid.6 We know even less about the marketplaces frequented by or-
dinary Mesopotamians, except that tavern-keepers operated on credit,
and hawkers and operators of market stalls probably did as well.7

The origins of interest will forever remain obscure, since they pre-
ceded the invention of writing. The terminology for interest in most
ancient languages is derived from some word for "offspring," causing
some to speculate that it originates in loans of livestock, but this seems
a bit literal-minded. More likely, the first widespread interest-bearing
loans were commercial: temples and palaces would forward wares to
merchants and commercial agents, who would then trade them in near-
by mountain kingdoms or on trading expeditions overseas.8

The practice is significant because it implies a fundamental lack
of trust. After all, why not simply demand a share in the profits? This
seems more fair (a merchant who came back bankrupt would probably
have little means of paying anyway), and profit-sharing partnerships
of this sort became common practice in the later Middle East.9 The
answer seems to be that profit-sharing partnerships were typically con-
tracted between merchants, or anyway people of similar background
and experience who had ways of keeping track of one another. Palace
or temple bureaucrats and world-roaming merchant adventurers had
little in common, and the bureaucrats seem to have concluded that one
could not normally expect a merchant returned from a far-off land to
be entirely honest about his adventures. A fixed interest rate would
render irrelevant whatever elaborate tales of robbery, shipwreck, or
attacks by winged snakes or elephants a creative merchant might have
concocted. The return was fixed in advance.

This connection between borrowing and lying, incidentally, is an
important one to history. Herodotus remarked about the Persians: "To
tell a lie is considered by them the greatest disgrace, and next to that
to be in debt . . . especially because they think that one in debt must of
necessity tell lies."10 (Later, Herodotus reported a story told to him by

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a Persian about the origins of the gold that the Persians had acquired
in India: they stole it from the nests of giant ants.)11 Jesus's parable of
the unforgiving servant makes a joke out of the matter ("Ten thousand
talents? No problem. Just give me a little more time"), but even here,
one can see how such endless falsehoods contributed to a broader sense
that a world in which moral relations are conceived as debts is also,
while in certain ways entertaining, necessarily a world of corruption,
guilt, and sin.

By the time of the earliest Sumerian documents, this world may
not yet have arrived. Still, the principle of lending at interest, even
compound interest, was already familiar to everyone. In 2402 bc, for
instance, a royal inscription by King Enmetena of Lagash — one of the
earliest we have — complains that his enemy, the King of Umma, had
been occupying a huge stretch of farmland that had rightfully belonged
to Lagash for decades. He announces: if one were to calculate the
rental fees for all that land, then the interest that would have been due
on that rent, compounded annually, it would reveal that Umma now
owes Lagash four and a half trillion liters of barley. The sum was, as in
the parable, intentionally preposterous.12 It was just an excuse to start
a war. Still, he wanted everyone to know that he knew exactly how to
do the math.

Usury — in the sense of interest-bearing consumer loans — was also
well established by Enmetena's time. The king ultimately had his war
and won it, and two years later, fresh off his victory, he was forced to
publish another edict: this one, a general debt cancellation within his
kingdom. As he later boasted, "he instituted freedom {amargi) in La-
gash. He restored the child to its mother, and the mother to her child;
he cancelled all interest due."13 This was, in fact, the very first such
declaration we have on record — and the first time in history that the
word "freedom" appears in a political document.

Enmetena's text is a bit vague on the details, but a half-century
later, when his successor Uruinimgina declared a general amnesty dur-
ing the New Year's ceremonies of 2350 bc, the terms are all spelled out,
and they conform to what was to become typical of such amnesties:
cancelling not only all outstanding loans, but all forms of debt servi-
tude, even those based on failure to pay fees or criminal penalties — the
only thing excepted being commercial loans.

Similar declarations are to be found again and again, in Sumerian
and later Babylonian and Assyrian records, and always with the same
theme: the restoration of "justice and equity," the protection of wid-
ows and orphans, to ensure — as Hammurabi was to put it when he

CREDIT VERSUS BULLION

217

abolished debts in Babylon in 1761 bc — "that the strong might not op-
press the weak."14 In the words of Michael Hudson,

The designated occasion for clearing Babylonia's financial slate
was the New Year festival, celebrated in the spring. Babylo-
nian rulers oversaw the ritual of "breaking the tablets," that
is, the debt records, restoring economic balance as part of the
calendrical renewal of society along with the rest of nature.
Hammurabi and his fellow rulers signaled these proclamations
by raising a torch, probably symbolizing the sun-god of justice
Shamash, whose principles were supposed to guide wise and
fair rulers. Persons held as debt pledges were released to rejoin
their families. Other debtors were restored cultivation rights
to their customary lands, free of whatever mortgage liens had
accumulated.1'

Over the next several thousand years, this same list — cancelling the
debts, destroying the records, reallocating the land — was to become
the standard list of demands of peasant revolutionaries everywhere. In
Mesopotamia, rulers appear to have headed off the possibility of unrest
by instituting such reforms themselves, as a grand gesture of cosmic
renewal, a recreation of the social universe — in Babylonia, during the
same ceremony in which the king reenacts his god Marduk's creation
of the physical universe. The history of debt and sin was wiped out,
and it was time to begin again. But it's also clear what they saw as
the alternative: the world plunged into chaos, with farmers defect-
ing to swell the ranks of nomadic pastoralists, and ultimately, if the
breakdown continued, returning to overrun the cities and destroy the
existing economic order entirely.

Egypt

(2650-716 BC)

Egypt represents an interesting contrast, since for most of its history,
it managed to avoid the development of interest-bearing debt entirely.

Egypt was, like Mesopotamia, extraordinarily rich by ancient stan-
dards, but it was also a self-contained society, a river running through
a desert, and far more centralized than Mesopotamia. The pharaoh
was a god, and the state and temple bureaucracies had their hands
in everything: there were a dazzling array of taxes and a continual

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distribution of allotments, wages, and payments from the state. Here,
too, money clearly arose as a means of account. The basic unit was
the deben, or "measure" — originally referring to measures of grain, and
later of copper or silver. A few records make clear the catch-as-catch-
can nature of most transactions:

In the 15th year of Ramses II [c. 1275 BC] a merchant offered
the Egyptian lady Erenofre a Syrian slave girl whose price, no
doubt after bargaining, was fixed at 4 deben 1 kite [about 373
grams] of silver. Erenofre made up a collection of clothes and
blankets to the value of 2 deben 2 1/3 kite — the details are set
out in the record — and then borrowed a miscellany of objects
from her neighbors — bronze vessels, a pot of honey, ten shirts,
ten deben of copper ingots — till the price was made up.16

Most merchants were itinerant, either foreigners or commercial
agents for the owners of large estates. There's not much evidence for
commercial credit, however; loans in Egypt were still more likely to
take the form of mutual aid between neighbors.17

Substantial, legally enforceable loans, the kind that can lead to the
loss of lands or family members, are documented, but they appear to
have been rare — and much less pernicious, as the loans did not bear
interest. Similarly, we do occasionally hear of debt-bondservants, and
even debt slaves, but these seem to have been unusual phenomena and
there's no suggestion that matters ever reached crisis proportions, as
they so regularly did in Mesopotamia and the Levant.18

In fact, for the first several thousand years, we seem to be in a
somewhat different world, where debt really was a matter of "guilt"
and treated largely as a criminal matter:

When a debtor failed to repay his debt on time, his creditor
could take him to court, where the debtor would be required
to promise to pay in full by a specific date. As part of his
promise — which was under oath — the debtor also pledged to
undergo 100 blows and/or repay twice the amount of the origi-
nal loan if he failed to pay by the date specified.19

The "and/or" is significant. There was no formal distinction be-
tween a fine and a beating. In fact, the entire purpose of the oath
(rather like the Cretan custom of having a borrower pretend to snatch
the money) seems to have been to create the justification for punitive
action: so the debtor could be punished as either a perjurer or a thief.20

CREDIT VERSUS BULLION

219

By the time of the New Kingdom (1550-1070) there is more evi-
dence for markets, but it's only by the time we reach the Iron Age,
just before Egypt was absorbed into the Persian empire, that we begin
to see evidence for Mesopotamian-style debt crises. Greek sources, for
instance, record that the Pharaoh Bakenranef (reigned 720-715 bc) is-
sued a decree abolishing debt bondage and annulling all outstanding
liabilities, since "he felt it would be absurd for a soldier, perhaps at
the moment when he was setting forth to fight for his fatherland, to
be hauled off to prison by his creditor for an unpaid loan" — which,
if true, is also one of the earliest mentions of a debt prison.21 Under
the Ptolemies, the Greek dynasty that ruled Egypt after Alexander,
periodic clean slates had become institutionized. It's well known that
the Rosetta Stone, written both in Greek and Egyptian, proved to be
the key that made it possible to translate Egyptian hieroglyphics. Few
are aware of what it actually says. The stela was originally raised to
announce an amnesty, both for debtors and for prisoners, declared by
Ptolemy V in 196 bc.22

China

(2200-771 BC)

We can say almost nothing about Bronze Age India, since its writ-
ing remains indecipherable, and not much more about Early China.
What little we do know — mainly culled from dribs and drabs in later
literary sources — suggests that the earliest Chinese states were far less
bureaucratic than their western cousins.23 There being no centralized
temple or palace system with priests and administrators managing the
storerooms and recording inputs and outputs, there was also little in-
centive to create a single, uniform unit of account. Instead, the evidence
suggests a different path, with social currencies of various sorts still
holding sway in the countryside and being converted to commercial
purposes in dealings between strangers.

Later sources recall that early rulers "used pearls and jade as their
superior method of payment, gold as their middle method of pay-
ment, and knives and spades as their lower method of payment."24 The
author can only be talking about gifts here, and hierarchical ones at
that: kings and great magnates rewarding their followers for services
in theory rendered voluntarily. In most places, long strings of cowrie
shells figure prominently, but even here, though we often hear of "the
cowrie money of early China," and it's easy enough to find texts in

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which the value of sumptuous gifts are measured in cowries, it's never
clear whether people were really carrying them around to buy and sell
things in the marketplace.25

The most likely interpretation is that they were carrying the shells,
but for a long time marketplaces themselves were of minor significance,
so this use was not nearly as important as the usual uses for social
currencies: marriage presents, fines, fees, and tokens of honor.26 At any
rate, all sources insist that there was a wide variety of currencies in cir-
culation. As David Scheidel, one of the premier contemporary scholars
of early money, notes:

In pre-imperial China, money took the form of cowrie shells,
both originals and — increasingly — bronze imitations, tor-
toise shells, weighed gold and (rarely) silver bars, and most
notably — from at least iooo BC onward — utensil money in the
shape of spade blades and knives made of bronze.27

These were most often used between people who didn't know each
other very well. For tabulating debts between neighbors, with local
vendors, or with anything having to do with the government, people
appear to have employed a variety of credit instruments: later Chi-
nese historians claimed that the earliest of these were knotted strings,
rather like the Inca khipu system, and then later, notched strips of
wood or bamboo.28 As in Mesopotamia, these appear to have long
predated writing.

We don't really know when the practice of lending at interest
first reached China either, or whether Bronze Age China came to see
the same sorts of debt crises as occurred in Mesopotamia, but there
are tantalizing hints in later documents.29 For instance, later Chinese
legends about the origin of coinage ascribed the invention to emper-
ors trying to relieve the effects of natural disasters. One early Han
text reports:

In ancient times, during the floods of Yu and the droughts of
Tang, the common people became so exhausted that they were
forced to borrow from one another in order to obtain food
and clothing. [Emperor] Yu coined money for his people from
the gold of Mount Li and [Emperor] Tang did likewise from
the copper of Mount Yan. Therefore the world called them
benevolent.'0

CREDIT VERSUS BULLION

221

Other versions are a little more explicit. The Guanzi, a collection
that in early imperial China became the standard primer on political
economy, notes "There were people who lacked even gruel to eat, and
who were forced to sell their children. To rescue these people, Tang
coined money."31

The story is clearly fanciful (the real origins of coined money were
at least a thousand years later), and it is very hard to know what to
make of it. Could this reflect a memory of children being taken away as
debt sureties? On the face of it, it seems more like starving people sell-
ing their children outright — a practice that was later to become com-
monplace in certain periods of Chinese history.32 But the juxtaposition
of loans and the sale of children is suggestive, especially considering
what was happening on the other side of Asia at exactly the same time.
The Guanzi later goes on to explain that these same rulers instituted
the custom of retaining 30 percent of the harvest in public granaries
for redistribution in emergencies, so as to ensure that this would never
happen again. In other words, they began to set up just the kind of
bureaucratic storage facilities that, in places like Egypt and Mesopota-
mia, had been responsible for creating money as a unit of account to
begin with.

Chapter Nine
THE AXIAL AGE

(800 BC - 600 AD)

Let us designate this period as the
"axial age." Extraordinary events are
crowded into this period, in China lived
Confucius and Lao Tse, all the trends in
■Chinese philosophy arose . . . In India
it was the age of the Upanishads and of
Buddha; as in China, all philosophical
trends, including skepticism and ma-
terialism, sophistry and nihilism, were
developed.

— Karl Jaspers, Way to Wisdom

THE PHRASE "THE AXIAL AGE" was coined by the German existen-
tialist philosopher Karl Jaspers.1 In the course of writing a history of
philosophy, Jaspers became fascinated by the fact that figures like Py-
thagoras (570-495 bc), the Buddha (563-483 bc), and Confucius (551-479
bc), were all alive at exactly the same time, and that Greece, India, and
China, in that period, all saw a sudden efflorescence of debate between
contending intellectual schools, each group apparently, unaware of
the others' existence. Like the simultaneous invention of coinage, why
this happened had always been a puzzle. Jaspers wasn't entirely sure
himself. To some extent, he suggested, it must have been an effect of
similar historical conditions. For most of the great urban civilizations
of the time, the early Iron Age was a kind of pause between empires,
a time when political landscapes were broken into a checkerboard of
often diminutive kingdoms and city-states, most often at constant war
externally and locked in constant political debate within. Each case
witnessed the development of something akin to a drop-out culture,

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with ascetics and sages fleeing to the wilderness or wandering from
town to town seeking wisdom; in each, too, they were eventually reab-
sorbed into the political order as a new kind of intellectual or spiritual
elite, whether as Greek sophists, Jewish prophets, Chinese sages, or
Indian holy men.

Whatever the reasons, the result, Jaspers argued, was the first pe-
riod in history in which human beings applied principles of reasoned
inquiry to the great questions of human existence. He observed that all
these great regions of the world, China, India, and the Mediterranean,
saw the emergence of remarkably parallel philosophical trends, from
skepticism to idealism — in fact, almost the entire range of positions
about the nature of the cosmos, mind, action, and the ends of human
existence that have remained the stuff of philosophy to this day. As one
of Jaspers' disciples later put it — overstating only slightly — "no really
new ideas have been added since that time."2

For Jaspers, the period begins with the Persian prophet Zoroaster,
around 800 bc, and ends around 200 bc, to be followed by a Spiritual
Age that centers on figures like Jesus and Mohammed. For my own
purposes, I find it more useful to combine the two. Let us define the
Axial Age, then, as running from 800 bc to 600 ad.3 This makes the
Axial Age the period that saw the birth not only of all the world's
major philosophical tendencies, but also, all of today's major world
religions: Zoroastrianism, Prophetic Judaism, Buddhism, Jainism, Hin-
duism, Confucianism, Taoism, Christianity, and Islam.4

The attentive reader may have noticed that the core period of
Jasper's Axial age — the lifetimes of Pythagoras, Confucius, and the
Buddha — corresponds almost exactly to the period in which coinage
was invented. What's more, the three parts of the world where coins
were first invented were also the very parts of the world where those
sages lived; in fact, they became the epicenters of Axial Age religious
and philosophical creativity: the kingdoms and city-states around the
Yellow River in China, the Ganges valley in northern India, and the
shores of the Aegean Sea.

What was the connection? We might start by asking: What is a
coin? The normal definition is that a coin is a piece of valuable metal,
shaped into a standardized unit, with some emblem or mark inscribed
to authenticate it. The world's first coins appear to have been cre-
ated within the kingdom of Lydia, in western Anatolia (now Turkey),
sometime around 600 BC.5 These first Lydian coins were basically just
round lumps of electrum — a gold-silver alloy that occurred naturally in
the nearby Pactolus River — that had been heated, then hammered with
some kind of insignia. The very first, stamped only with a few letters,

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225

appear to have been manufactured by ordinary jewelers, but these dis-
appeared almost instantly, replaced by coins manufactured in a newly
established royal mint. Greek cities on the Anatolian coast soon began
to strike their own coins, and they came to be adopted in Greece itself;
the same thing occurred in the Persian Empire after it absorbed Lydia
in 547 bc.

In both India and China, we can observe the same pattern: invent-
ed by private citizens, coinage was quickly monopolized by the state.
The first Indian money, which seems to have appeared at some point
in the sixth century, consisted of bars of silver trimmed down to uni-
form weights, then punch-marked with some kind of official symbol.6
Most of the examples discovered by archaeologists contain numerous
additional counter-punches, presumably added much in the way that a
check or other credit instrument is endorsed before being transferred.
This strongly suggests that they were being handled by people used to
dealing with more abstract credit instruments.7 Much early Chinese
coinage also shows signs of having evolved directly from social curren-
cies: some were in fact cast bronze in the shape of cowries, though oth-
ers took the shape of diminutive knives, disks, or spades. In every case,
local governments quickly stepped in — presumably within the space of
about a generation.8 However, since in each of the three areas there
was a plethora of tiny states, this meant that each ended up with a
wide variety of different currency systems. For example, around 700 bc,
northern India was still divided into Janapadas or "tribal territories,"
some of them monarchies and some republics, and in the sixth century
there were still at least sixteen major kingdoms. In China, this was the
period where the old Zhou Empire first devolved into vying principali-
ties (the "Spring and Autumn" period, 722-481 bc), then splintered into
the chaos of the "Warring States" (475-221 bc.) Like the Greek city-
states, all of the resulting kingdoms, no matter how diminutive, aspired
to issue their own official currency.

Recent scholarship has shed a great deal of light on how this must
have happened. Gold, silver, and bronze — the materials from which
coins were made — had long been the media of international trade; but
until that time, only the rich had actually had much in their possession.
A typical Sumerian farmer may well have never had occasion to hold a
substantial piece of silver in his hand, except perhaps at his wedding.
Most precious metals took the form of wealthy women's anklets and
heirloom chalices presented by kings to their retainers, or it was simply
stockpiled in temples, in ingot form, as sureties for loans. Somehow,
during the Axial Age, all this began to change. Large amounts of silver,
gold, and copper were dethesaurized, as the economic historians like

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to say; it was removed from the temples and houses of the rich and
placed in the hands of ordinary people, was broken into tinier pieces,
and began to be used in everyday transactions.

How? Israeli Classicist David Schaps provides the most plausible
suggestion: most of it was stolen. This was a period of generalized war-
fare, and it is in the nature of war that precious things are plundered.

Soldiers who plunder may indeed go first for the women, the
alcoholic drinks, or the food, but they will also be looking
around for things of value that are easily portable. A long-term
standing army will tend to accumulate many things that are
valuable and portable — and the most valuable and portable
items are precious metals and precious stones. It may well have
been the protracted wars among the states of these areas that
first produced a large population of people with precious metal
in their possession and a need for everyday necessities . . .

Where there are people who want to buy there will be peo-
ple willing to sell, as innumerable tracts on black markets,
drug dealing, and prostitution point out . . . The constant
warfare of the archaic age of Greece, of the Janapadas of In-
dia, of the Warring States of China, was a powerful impetus
for the development of market trade, and in particular for
market trade based on the exchange of precious metal, usually
in small amounts. If plunder brought precious metal into the
hands of the soldiers, the market will have spread it through
the population.9

Now, one might object: but surely, war and plunder were noth-
ing new. The Homeric epics, for instance, show a well-nigh obsessive
interest in the division of the spoils. True, but what the Axial Age also
saw — again, equally in China, India, and the Aegean — was the rise of
a new kind of army, made up not of aristocratic warriors and their
retainers, but trained professionals. The period when the Greeks began
to use coinage, for instance, was also the period when they developed
their famous phalanx tactics, which required constant drill and training
of the hoplite soldiers. The results were so extraordinarily effective that
Greek mercenaries were soon being sought after from Egypt to Crimea.
But unlike the Homeric retainers, who could simply be ignored, an
army of trained mercenaries needs to be rewarded in some meaningful
way. One could perhaps provide them all with livestock, but livestock
are hard to transport; or with promissory notes, but these would be

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227

worthless in the mercenaries' own country. Allowing each a tiny share
of the plunder does seem an obvious solution.

These new armies were, directly or indirectly, under the control of
governments, and it took governments to turn these chunks of metal
into genuine currency. The main reason for this is simply scale: to cre-
ate enough coins that the people could begin to use them in everyday
transactions required mass production on a scale far beyond the abili-
ties of local merchants or smiths.10 Of course we have already seen why
governments might have incentive to do so: the existence of markets
was highly convenient for governments, and not just because it made it
so much easier for them to provision large standing armies. By insist-
ing that only their own coins were acceptable as fees, fines, or taxes,
governments were able to overwhelm the innumerable social currencies
that already existed in their hinterlands, and to establish something like
uniform national markets.

Actually, one theory is that the very first Lydian coins were in-
vented explicitly to pay mercenaries.11 This might help explain why
the Greeks, who supplied most of the mercenaries, so quickly became
accustomed to the use of coins, and why the use of coinage spread so
quickly across the Hellenic world, so that by 480 bc there were at least
one hundred mints operating in different Greek cities, even though at
that time, none of the great trading nations of the Mediterranean had
as yet showed the slightest interest in them. The Phoenicians, for exam-
ple, were considered the greatest merchants and bankers of antiquity.12
They were also great inventors, having been the first to develop both
the alphabet and the abacus. Yet for centuries after the invention of
coinage, they preferred to continue conducting business as they always
had, with unwrought ingots and promissory notes.13 Phoenician cities
struck no coins until 365 bc, and while Carthage, the great Phoenician
colony in North Africa that came to dominate commerce in the West-
ern Mediterranean, did so a bit earlier, it was only when "forced to do
so to pay Sicilian mercenaries; and its issues were marked in Punic, 'for
the people of the camp."'14

On the other hand, in the extraordinary violence of the Axial Age,
being a "great trading nation" (rather than, say, an aggressive military
power like Persia, Athens, or Rome) was not, ultimately, a winning
proposition. The fate of the Phoenician cities is instructive. Sidon, the
wealthiest, was destroyed by the Persian emperor Artaxerxes III after
a revolt in 351 BC. Forty thousand of its inhabitants are said to have
committed mass suicide rather than surrender. Nineteen years later,
Tyre was destroyed after a prolonged siege by Alexander: ten thousand
died in battle, and the thirty thousand survivors were sold into slavery.

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Carthage lasted longer, but when Roman armies finally destroyed the
city in 146 bc, hundreds of thousands of Carthaginians were said to
have been raped and slaughtered, and fifty thousand captives put on
the auction block, after which the city itself was razed and its fields
sowed with salt.

All this may bring home something of the level of violence amidst
which Axial Age thought developed.15 But it also leaves us asking:
What exactly was the ongoing relation among coinage, military power,
and this unprecedented outpouring of ideas?

The Mediterranean

Here again our best information is from the Mediterranean world,
and I have already provided some of its outlines. Comparing Athens —
with its far-flung naval empire — and Rome, we can immediately detect
striking similarities. In each city, history begins with a series of debt
crises. In Athens, the first crisis, the one that culminated in Solon's
reforms of 594 bc, was so early that coinage could hardly have been
a factor. In Rome, too, the earliest crises seem to have proceeded the
advent of currency. Rather, in each case, coinage became a solution.
In brief, one might say that these conflicts over debt had two possible
outcomes. The first was that the aristocrats could win, and the poor
remain "slaves of the rich" — which in practice meant that most people
would end up clients of some wealthy patron. Such states were gener-
ally militarily ineffective.16 The second was that popular factions could
prevail, institute the usual popular program of redistribution of lands
and safeguards against debt peonage, thus creating the basis for a class
of free farmers whose children would, in turn, be free to spend much
of their time training for war.17

Coinage played a critical role in maintaining this kind of free
peasantry — secure in their landholding, not tied to any great lord by
bonds of debt. In fact, the fiscal policies of many Greek cities amounted
to little more than elaborate systems for the distribution of loot. It's
important to emphasize that few ancient cities, if any, went so far as
to outlaw predatory lending, or even debt peonage, entirely. Instead,
they threw money at the problem. Gold, and especially silver, were ac-
quired in war, or mined by slaves captured in war. Mints were located
in temples (the traditional place for depositing spoils), and city-states
developed endless ways to distribute coins, not only to soldiers, sail-
ors, and those producing arms or outfitting ships, but to the populace

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229

generally, as jury fees, fees for attending public assemblies, or some-
times just as outright distributions, as Athens did most famously when
they discovered a new vein of silver in the mines at Laurium in 483 bc.
At the same time, insisting that the same coins served as legal tender
for all payments due to the state guaranteed that they would be in suf-
ficient demand that markets would soon develop.

Many of the political crises in ancient Greek cities similarly turned
on the distribution of the spoils. Here is another incident recorded in
Aristotle, who provides a conservative take on the origins of a coup
in the city of Rhodes around 391 bc ("demagogues" here refers to the
leaders of the democracy):

The demagogues needed money to pay the people for attend-
ing the assembly and serving on juries; for if the people did
not attend, the demagogues would lose their influence. They
raised at least some of the money they needed by preventing
the disbursement of the money due the trireme [warship] com-
manders under their contracts with the city to build and fit
triremes for the Rhodian navy. Since the trireme commanders
were not paid, they were unable in turn to pay their suppliers
and workers, who sued the trireme commanders. To escape
these lawsuits the trireme commanders banded together and
overthrew the democracy.18

It was slavery, though, that made all this possible. As the figures
concerning Sidon, Tyre, and Carthage suggest, enormous numbers of
people were being enslaved in many of these conflicts, and, of course,
many slaves ended up working in the mines, producing even more gold,
silver, and copper. (The mines in Laurium reportedly employed ten to
twenty thousand of them.)19

Geoffrey Ingham calls the resulting system a "military-coinage
complex" — though I think it would be more accurate to call it a
"military-coinage-slavery complex."20 Anyway, that describes rather
nicely how it worked in practice. When Alexander set out to conquer
the Persian Empire, he borrowed much of the money with which to pay
and provision his troops, and he minted his first coins, used to pay his
creditors and continue to support the money, by melting down gold and
silver plundered after his initial victories.21 However, an expeditionary
force needed to be paid, and paid well: Alexander's army, which num-
bered some 120,000 men, required half a ton of silver a day just for
wages. For this reason, conquest meant that the existing Persian system
of mines and mints had to be reorganized around providing for the

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invading army; and ancient mines, of course, were worked by slaves. In
turn, most slaves in mines were war captives. Presumably most of the
unfortunate survivors of the siege of Tyre ended up working in such
mines. One can see how this process might feed upon itself.22

Alexander was also the man responsible for destroying what re-
mained of the ancient credit systems, since not only the Phoenicians
but also the old Mesopotamian heartland had resisted the new coin
economy. His armies not only destroyed Tyre; they also dethesaurized
the gold and silver reserves of Babylonian and Persian temples, the
security on which their credit systems were based, and insisted that
all taxes to his new government be paid in his own money. The result
was to "release the accumulated specie of century onto the market in a
matter of months," something like 180,000 talents, or in contemporary
terms, an estimated $285 billion.23

The Hellenistic successor kingdoms established by Alexander's gen-
erals, from Greece to India, employed mercenaries rather than national
armies, but the story of Rome is, again, similar to that of Athens. Its
early history, as recorded by official chroniclers like Livy, is one of
continual struggles between patricians and plebians, and of continual
crises over debt. Periodically, these would lead to what were called mo-
ments of "the secession of the plebs," when the commoners of the city
abandoned their fields and workshops, camped outside the city, and
threatened mass defection — an interesting halfway point between the
popular revolts of Greece and the strategy of exodus typically pursued
in Egypt and Mesopotamia. Here, too, the patricians were ultimately
faced with a decision: they could use agricultural loans to gradually
turn the plebian population into a class of bonded laborers on their
estates, or they could accede to popular demands for debt protection,
preserve a free peasantry, and employ the younger sons of free farm
families as soldiers.24 As the prolonged history of crises, secessions,
and reforms makes clear, the choice was made grudgingly.25 The plebs
practically had to force the senatorial class to take the imperial option.
Still, they did, and over time they gradually presided over the establish-
ment of a welfare system that recycled at least a share of the spoils to
soldiers, veterans, and their families.

It seems significant, in this light, that the traditional date of the
first Roman coinage — 338 BC — is almost exactly the date when debt
bondage was finally outlawed (326 bc).26 Again, coinage, minted from
war spoils, didn't cause the crisis. It was used as a solution.

In fact, the entire Roman empire, at its height, could be understood
as a vast machine for the extraction of precious metals and their coin-
ing and distribution to the military — combined with taxation policies

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231

designed to encourage conquered populations to adopt coins in their
everyday transactions. Even so, for most of its history, use of coins was
heavily concentrated in two regions: in Italy and a few major cities,
and on the frontiers, where the legions were actually stationed. In areas
where there were neither mines nor military operations, older credit
systems presumably continued to operate.

I will add one final note here. In Greece as in Rome, attempts to
solve the debt crisis through military expansion were always, ultimate-
ly, just ways of fending off the problem — and they only worked for a
limited period of time. When expansion stopped, everything returned
to as it had been before. Actually, it's not clear that all forms of debt
bondage were ever entirely eliminated even in cities like Athens and
Rome. In cities that were not successful military powers, without any
source of income to set up welfare policies, debt crises continued to
flare up every century or so — and they often became far more acute
than they ever had in the Middle East, because there was no mecha-
nism, short of outright revolution, to declare a Mesopotamian-style
clean slate. Large populations, even in the Greek world, did, in fact,
sink to the rank of serfs and clients.27

Athenians, as we've seen, seemed to assume that a gentleman nor-
mally lived a step or two ahead of his creditors. Roman politicians
were little different. Of course much of the debt was money that mem-
bers of the senatorial class owed to each other: in a way, it's just the
usual communism of the rich, extending credit to one another on easy
terms that they would never think to offer others. Still, under the late
Republic, history records many intrigues and conspiracies hatched by
desperate debtors, often aristocrats driven by relentless creditors to
make common cause with the poor.28 If we hear less about this sort of
thing happening under the emperors, it's probably because there were
fewer opportunities for protest; what evidence we have suggests that
if anything, the problem got much worse.29 Around 100 ad, Plutarch
wrote about his own country as if it were under foreign invasion:

And as King Darius sent to the city of Athens his lieutenants
Datis and Artaphernes with chains and cords, to bind the pris-
oners they should take; so these usurers, bringing into Greece
boxes full of schedules, bills, and obligatory contracts, as so
many irons and fetters for the shackling of poor criminals . . .

For at the very delivery of their money, they immediately
ask it back, taking it up at the same moment they lay it down;
and they let out that again to interest which they take for the
use of what they have before lent.

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So that they laugh at those natural philosophers who hold
that nothing can be made of nothing and of that which has no
existence; but with them usury is made and engendered of that
which neither is nor ever was.30

The works of the early Christian fathers likewise resound with
endless descriptions of the misery and desperation of those caught in
rich lenders' webs. In the end, through this means, that small win-
dow of freedom that had been created by the plebs was completely
undone, and the free peasantry largely eliminated. By the end of the
empire, most people in the countryside who weren't outright slaves
had become, effectively, debt peons to some rich landlord; a situation
in the end legally formalized by imperial decrees binding peasants to
the land.31 Without a free peasantry to form the basis for the army,
the state was forced to rely more and more on arming and employing
Germanic barbarians from across the imperial frontiers — with results
I need hardly relate.

India

In most ways, India, could not be more different as a civilization than
the ancient Mediterranean — but to a remarkable degree, the same basic
pattern repeats itself there as well.

The Bronze Age civilization of the Indus Valley collapsed sometime
around 1600 BC; it would be about a thousand years before India saw
the emergence of another urban civilization. When it did, that civili-
zation was centered on the fertile plains that surrounded the Ganges
farther east. Here too we observe, at first, a checkerboard of different
sorts of government, from the famous "Ksatriya republics" with a pop-
ulace in arms and urban democratic assemblies, to elective monarchies,
to centralized empires like Kosala and Magadha.32 Both Gautama (the
future Buddha), and Mahavira (the founder of Jainism) were born in
one of the republics, though both ultimately found themselves teaching
within the great empires, whose rulers often became patrons of wan-
dering ascetics and philosophers.

Both kingdoms and republics produced their own silver and cop-
per coinage, but in some ways the republics were more traditional,
since the self-governing "populace in arms" consisted of the traditional
Ksatriya or warrior caste, who typically held their lands in common
and had them worked by serfs or slaves.33 The kingdoms, on the other
hand, were founded on a fundamentally new institution: a trained,

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233

professional army, open to young men of a wide variety of back-
grounds, their equipment supplied by central authorities (soldiers were
obliged to check their arms and armor when they entered cities), and
provided with generous salaries.

Whatever their origins, here too, coins and markets sprung up
above all to feed the machinery of war. Magadha, which ultimately
came out on top, did so largely because it controlled most of the
mines. Kautilya's Arthasastra, a political treatise written by one of the
chief ministers for the Mauryan dynasty that succeeded it (321-185 bc),
stated the matter precisely: "The treasury is based upon mining, the
army upon the treasury; he who has army and treasury may conquer
the whole wide earth.'"4 The government drew its personnel first of
all from a landed class, which provided trained administrators, but
even more, full-time soldiers: the salaries of each rank of soldier and
administrator were carefully stipulated. These armies could be huge.
Greek sources report that Magadha could put to the field a force of
200,000 infantry, 20,000 horses, and about 4,000 elephants — and that
Alexander's men mutinied rather than have to face them. Whether on
campaign or in garrison, they were inevitably accompanied by a range
of different sorts of camp followers — petty traders, prostitutes, and
hired servants — which, with the soldiers, seems to have been the very
medium through which a cash economy had originally taken form.35
By Kautilya's time, a few hundred years later, the state was inserting
itself into every aspect of the process: Kautilya suggests paying sol-
diers apparently generous wages, then secretly replacing hawkers with
government agents who could charge them twice the normal rates for
supplies, as well as organizing prostitutes under a ministry in which
they could be trained as spies, so as to make detailed reports on their
clients' loyalties.

Thus was the market economy, born of war, gradually taken over
by the government. Rather than stifle the spread of currency, the pro-
cess seems to have doubled and even tripled it: the military logic was
extended to the entire economy, the government systematically setting
up its granaries, workshops, trading houses, warehouses, and jails,
staffed by salaried officials, and all selling products on the market so as
to collect the pieces of silver paid off to soldiers and officials and put
them back into the royal treasuries again.'6 The result was a moneta-
rization of daily life unlike anything India was to see for another two
thousand years.'7

Something similar seems to have happened with slavery, which was
quite commonplace at the time of the rise of the great armies — again,
unlike almost any other point in Indian history — but was gradually

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brought under government control.38 By Kautilya's time, most war cap-
tives were not sold in marketplaces but relocated to government vil-
lages on newly reclaimed land. They were not allowed to leave, and
these government villages were, at least according to the regulations,
remarkably dreary places: veritable work camps, with all forms of
festive entertainment officially prohibited. Slave hirelings were mostly
convicts, rented by the state during their terms.

With their armies, spies, and administration controlling everything,
the new Indian kings evinced little interest in the old priestly caste
and its Vedic ritual, though many kept up a lively interest in the new
philosophical and religious ideas that seem to have been cropping up
everywhere at the time. As time went on, however, the war machine
began to sputter. It's not clear exactly why this happened. By the
time of emperor Asoka (273-232 be), the Maury an dynasty controlled
almost all of present-day India and Pakistan, but the Indian version
of the military-coinage-slavery complex was showing definite signs of
strain. Perhaps the clearest sign was the debasement of the coinage,
which over the course of two centuries or so had gone from almost
pure silver to about fifty percent copper.39

Asoka, famously, began his reign in conquest: in 265 be, destroying
the Kalingas, one of the last remaining Indian republics, in a war in
which hundreds of thousands of human beings were, according to his
own account, killed or carried off into slavery. Asoka later claimed to
have been so disturbed and haunted by the carnage that he renounced
war altogether, embraced Buddhism, and declared that from that time
on, his kingdom would be governed by principles of ahimsa, or non-
violence. "Here in my kingdom," he declared in an edict inscribed on
one of the great granite pillars in his capital of Patna, which so dazzled
the Greek ambassador Megasthenes, "no living being must be killed or
sacrificed."40 Such a statement obviously can't be taken literally: Asoka
might have replaced sacrificial ritual with vegetarian feasts, but he
didn't abolish the army, abandon capital punishment, or even outlaw
slavery. But his rule marked a revolutionary shift in ethos. Aggressive
war was abandoned, and much of the army does seems to have been
demobilized, along with the network of spies and state bureaucrats,
with the new, proliferating mendicant orders (Buddhists, Jains, and
also world-renouncing Hindus) given official state support to preach to
the villages on questions of social morality. Asoka and his successors
diverted substantial resources to these religious orders, with the result
that, over the next centuries, thousands of stupas and monasteries were
built across the subcontinent.41

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235

Asoka's reforms are useful to contemplate here because they help
reveal just how mistaken some of our basic assumptions are: par-
ticularly, that money equals coins, and that more coins in circulation
means more commerce and a greater role for private merchants. In
reality, the Magadha state promoted markets but had been suspicious
of private merchants, seeing them largely as competitors.42 Merchants
had been among the earliest and most ardent supporters of the new
religions (Jains, owing to their rigorous enforcement of rules against
harm to any living creature, were obliged to become, effectively, a
mercantile caste). Mercantile interests fully supported Asoka's reforms.
Yet the result was not an increase in the use of cash in everyday affairs
but exactly the opposite.

Early Buddhist economic attitudes have long been considered a
bit mysterious. On the one hand, monks could not own property as
individuals; they were expected to live an austere communistic life
with little more than a robe and begging bowl as personal possessions,
and they were strictly forbidden to so much as touch anything made
of gold or silver. On the other hand, however suspicious of precious
metals, Buddhism had always had a liberal attitude toward credit ar-
rangements. It is one of the few of the great world religions that has
never formally condemned usury.43 Taken in the context of the times,
however, there's nothing particularly mysterious about any of this. It
makes perfect sense for a religious movement that rejected violence
and militarism, but that was in no way opposed to commerce.44 As we
shall see, while Asoka's own empire was not long to endure, soon to
be replaced by a succession of ever weaker and mostly smaller states,
Buddhism took root. The decline of the great armies eventually led to
the near-disappearance of coinage, but also to a veritable efflorescence
of increasingly sophisticated forms of credit.

China

Until about 475 BC, northern China was still nominally an empire, but
the emperors had devolved into figureheads and a series of de facto
kingdoms had emerged. The period from 475 to 221 bc is referred as
the "Warring States period"; at that point, even the pretense of unity
was cast aside. Ultimately, the country was reunited by the state of
Qin, who established a dynasty that was then immediately overthrown
by a series of massive popular insurrections, ushering in the Han dy-
nasty (206 BC-220 ad), founded by a previously obscure rural constable

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and peasant leader named Liu Bao, who was the first Chinese leader
to adopt the Confucian ideology, exam system, and pattern of civil
administration that were to continue for almost two thousand years.

Still, the golden age of Chinese philosophy was the period of chaos
that preceded unification, and this followed the typical Axial Age pat-
tern: the same fractured political landscape, the same rise of trained,
professional armies and the creation of coined money largely in order
to pay them.45 We also see the same government policies designed to
encourage the development of markets, chattel slavery on a scale not
seen before or since in Chinese history, the appearance of itinerant
philosophers and religious visionaries, battling intellectual schools, and
eventually, attempts by political leaders to transform the new philoso-
phies into religions of state.46

There were also significant differences, starting with the currency
system. China never minted gold or silver coins. Merchants used pre-
cious metals in the form of bullion, but the coins in actual circulation
were basically small change: cast bronze disks, usually with a hole in
the middle so that they could be strung together. Such strings of "cash"
were produced in extraordinary numbers, and very large amounts had
to be assembled for large-scale transactions: when wealthy men wished
to make donations to temples, for instance, they had to use oxcarts
to carry the money. The most plausible explanation is that, especially
after unification, Chinese armies were enormous — some Warring States
armies numbered up to a million — but not nearly as professional or
well paid as those of kingdoms farther west, and from Qin and Han
times on, rulers were careful to ensure that this remained the case, to
make sure the army never became an independent power base.47

There was also a notable difference in that the new religious and
philosophical movements in China were from their very beginnings also
social movements. Elsewhere, they only gradually became so. In ancient
Greece, philosophy began with cosmological speculation; philosophers
were more likely to be individual sages, perhaps surrounded by a few
ardent disciples, as founders of movements.48 Under the Roman empire,
schools of philosophy like the Stoics, Epicureans, Neo-Platonists did
become movements of a sort: at least in the sense that they had thou-
sands of educated adherents, who "practiced" philosophy not only by
reading, writing, and debating, but even more by meditation, diet, and
exercise. Still, philosophical movements were basically confined to the
civic elite; it was only with the rise of Christianity and other religious
movements that philosophy moved beyond it.49 One can observe a
similar evolution in India, from individual Brahman world-renouncers,
forest sages, and wandering mendicants with theories about the nature

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237

of the soul or the composition of the material universe; to philosoph-
ical movements of the Buddhists, Jains, AjTvika, and others mostly
long forgotten; to, finally, mass religious movements with thousands of
monks, shrines, schools, and networks of lay supporters.

In China, while many of the founders of the "hundred schools" of
philosophy that blossomed under the Warring States were wandering
sages who spent their days moving from city to city trying to catch
the ears of princes, others were leaders of social movements from the
very start. Some of these movements didn't even have leaders, like the
School of the Tillers, an anarchist movement of peasant intellectuals
who set out to create egalitarian communities in the cracks and fissures
between states.50 The Mohists, egalitarian rationalists whose social
base seems to have been urban artisans, not only were philosophically
opposed to war and militarism, but organized battalions of military en-
gineers who would actively discourage conflicts by volunteering to fight
in any war against the side of the aggressor. Even the Confucians, for
all the importance they attached to courtly ritual, were in their early
days mainly known for their efforts in popular education.51

Materialism I:
The Pursuit of Profit

What is one to make of all this? The popular education campaigns of
the period perhaps provide a clue. The Axial Age was the first time
in human history when familiarity with the written word was no lon-
ger limited to priests, administrators, and merchants, but had become
necessary to full participation in civic life. In Athens, it was taken for
granted that only a country bumpkin would be entirely illiterate.

Without mass literacy, neither the emergence of mass intellectual
movements, nor the spread of Axial Age ideas would have been pos-
sible. By the end of the period, these ideas had produced a world where
even the leaders of barbarian armies descending on the Roman empire
felt obliged to take a position on the question of the Mystery of the
Trinity, and where Chinese monks could spend time debating the rela-
tive merits of the eighteen schools of Classical Indian Buddhism.

No doubt the growth of markets played a role too, not only help-
ing to free people from the proverbial shackles of status or community,
but encouraging a certain habit of rational calculation, of measuring
inputs and outputs, means and ends, all of which must inevitably have
found some echoes in the new spirit of rational inquiry that begins to

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appear in all the same times and places. Even the word "rational" is
telling: it derives, of course, from "ratio" — how many of X go into
Y — a sort of mathematical calculation previously used mainly by ar-
chitects and engineers, but which, with the rise of markets, everyone
who didn't want to get cheated at the marketplace had to learn how
to do. Still, we must be careful here. After all, money in itself was
nothing new. Sumerian farmers and tradesmen were already perfectly
capable of making such calculations in 3500 bc; but none, as far as we
know, were so impressed that they concluded, like Pythagoras, that
mathematical ratios were the key to understanding the nature of the
universe and the movement of celestial bodies, and that all things were
ultimately composed of numbers — and they certainly hadn't formed
secret societies based on sharing this understanding, debating and purg-
ing and excommunicating one another.52

To understand what had changed, we have to look, again, at the
particular kind of markets that were emerging at the beginning of the
Axial Age: impersonal markets, born of war, in which it was possible
to treat even neighbors as if they were strangers.

Within human economies, motives are assumed to be complex.
When a lord gives a gift to a retainer, there is no reason to doubt that
it is inspired by a genuine desire to benefit that retainer, even if it is
also a strategic move designed to ensure loyalty, and an act of magnifi-
cence meant to remind everyone else that he is great and the retainer
small. There is no sense of contradiction here. Similarly, gifts between
equals are usually fraught with many layers of love, envy, pride, spite,
communal solidarity, or any of a dozen other things. Speculating on
such matters is a major form of daily entertainment. What's missing,
though, is any sense that the most selfish ("self-interested") motive is
necessarily the real one: those speculating on hidden motives are just
as likely to assume that someone is secretly trying to help a friend or
harm an enemy as to acquire some advantage for him- or herself.53
Neither is any of this likely to have changed much in the rise of early
credit markets, where the value of an IOU was as much dependent on
assessments of its issuer's character as on his disposable income, and
motives of love, envy, pride, etc. could never be completely set aside.

Cash transactions between strangers were different, and all the
more so when trading is set against a background of war and emerges
from disposing of loot and provisioning soldiers; when one often had
best not ask where the objects traded came from, and where no one
is much interested in forming ongoing personal relationships anyway.
Here, transactions really do become simply a figuring-out of how many
of X will go for how many of Y, of calculating proportions, estimating

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239

quality, and trying to get the best deal for oneself. The result, during
the Axial Age, was a new way of thinking about human motivation, a
radical simplification of motives that made it possible to begin speak-
ing of concepts like "profit" and "advantage" — and imagining that this
is what people are really pursuing, in every aspect of existence, as if
the violence of war or the impersonality of the marketplace has simply
allowed them to drop the pretense that they ever cared about anything
else. It was this, in turn, that allowed human life to seem like it could
be reduced to a matter of means-to-end calculation, and hence some-
thing that could be examined using the same means that one used to
study the attraction and repulsion of celestial bodies.54 If the underlying
assumption very much resembles those of contemporary economists,
it's no coincidence — but with the difference that, in an age when mon-
ey, markets, states, and military affairs were all intrinsically connected,
money was needed to pay armies to capture slaves to mine gold to
produce money; when "cutthroat competition" often did involve the
literal cutting of throats, it never occurred to anyone to imagine that
selfish ends could be pursued by peaceful means. Certainly, this picture
of humanity does begin to appear, with startling consistency, across
Eurasia, wherever we also see coinage and philosophy appear.

China provides an unusually transparent case in point. Already
in Confucius's time, Chinese thinkers were speaking of the pursuit of
profit as the driving force in human life. The actual term used was //',
a word first used to refer to the increase of grain one harvests from
a field over and above what one originally planted (the pictogram
represents a sheaf of wheat next to a knife).55 From there it came to
mean commercial profit, and thence, a general term for "benefit" or
"payback." The following story, which purports to tell the reaction of
a merchant's son named Lii Buwei on learning that an exiled prince
was living nearby, illustrates the progression nicely:

On returning home, he said to his father, "What is the profit on
investment that one can expect from plowing fields?"

"Ten times the investment," replied his father.

"And the return on investment in pearls and jades is how
much?"

"A hundredfold."

"And the return on investment from establishing a ruler and
securing the state would be how much?"
"It would be incalculable."56

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Lii adopted the prince's cause and eventually contrived to make
him King of Qin. He went on to became first minister for the king's
son, Qin Shi Huang, helping him defeat the other Warring States to
became the first Emperor of China. We still have a compendium of
political wisdom that Lii commissioned for the new emperor, which
contains such military advice as the following:

As a general principle, when an enemy's army comes, it seeks
some profit. Now if they come and find the prospect of death
instead, they will consider running away the most profitable
thing to do. When all one's enemies consider running to be the
most profitable thing to do, no blades will cross.

This is the most essential point in military matters.57

In such a world, heroic considerations of honor and glory, vows to
gods or desire for vengeance, were at best weaknesses to be manipu-
lated. In the numerous manuals on statecraft produced at the time,
everything was cast as a matter of recognizing interest and advantage,
calculating how to balance that which will profit the ruler against that
which will profit the people, determining when the ruler's interests are
the same as the people's and when they contradict.58 Technical terms
drawn from politics, economics, and military strategy ("return on in-
vestment," "strategic advantage") blended and overlapped.

The predominant school of political thought under the Warring
States was that of the Legalists, who insisted that in matters of state-
craft, a ruler's interests were the only consideration, even if rulers
would be unwise to admit this. Still, the people could be easily ma-
nipulated, since they had the same motivations: the people's pursuit of
profit, wrote Lord Shang, is utterly predictable, "just like the tendency
of water to flow downhill."59 Shang was harsher than most of his fel-
low Legalists in that he believed that widespread prosperity would
ultimately harm the ruler's ability to mobilize his people for war, and
therefore that terror was the most efficient instrument of governance,
but even he insisted that this regime be clothed as a regime of law
and justice.

Wherever the military-coinage-slavery complex began to take hold,
we find political theorists propounding similar ideas. Kautilya was no
different: the title of his book, the Arthasastra, is usually translated as
"manual of statecraft," since it consists of advice to rulers, but its more
literal translation is "the science of material gain."60 Like the Legalists,
Kautilya emphasized the need to create a pretext that governance was a
matter of morality and justice, but in addressing the rulers themselves,

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241

he insisted that "war and peace are considered solely from the point of
view of profit" — of amassing wealth to create a more effective army,
of using the army to dominate markets and control resources to amass
more wealth, and so on.61 In Greece we've already met Thrasyma-
chos. True, Greece was slightly different. Greek city-states did not have
kings, and the collapse of private interests and affairs of state was in
principle universally denounced as tyranny. Still, in practice, what this
meant was that city-states, and even political factions, ended up acting
in precisely the same coldly calculating way as Indian or Chinese sov-
ereigns. Anyone who has ever read Thucydides' Melian dialogue — in
which Athenian generals present the population of a previously friendly
city with elegantly reasoned arguments for why the Athenians have
determined that it is to the advantage of their empire to threaten them
with collective massacre if they are not willing to become tribute-
paying subjects, and why it is equally in the interests of the Melians to
submit — is aware of the results.62

Another striking feature of this literature is its resolute material-
ism. Goddesses and gods, magic and oracles, sacrificial ritual, ancestral
cults, even caste and ritual status systems all either disappear or are
sidelined, no longer treated as ends in themselves but as yet mere tools
to be used for the pursuit of material gain.

That intellectuals willing to produce such theories should win the
ears of princes is hardly surprising. Neither is it particularly surpris-
ing that other intellectuals should have been so offended by this sort
of cynicism that they began to make common cause with the popular
movements that inevitably began to form against those princes. But
as is so often the case, oppositional intellectuals were faced with two
choices: either adopt the reigning terms of debate, or try to come up
with a diametrical inversion. Mo Di, the founder of Mohism, took the
first approach. He turned the concept of li, profit, into something more
like "social utility," and then he attempted to demonstrate that war
itself is, by definition, an unprofitable activity. For example, he wrote,
campaigns can only be fought in spring and autumn, and each had
equally deleterious effects:

If in the spring then the people miss their sowing and planting,
if in the autumn, they miss their reaping and harvesting. Even if
they miss only one season, then the number of people who will
die of cold and hunger is incalculable. Now let us calculate the
army's equipment, the arrows, standards, tents, armor, shields,
and sword hilts; the number of these which will break and per-
ish and not come back ... So also with oxen and horses . . ,63

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His conclusion: if one could add up the total costs of aggression in
human lives, animal lives, and material damage, one would be forced
to the conclusion that they never outweighed the benefits — even for the
victor. In fact, Mo Di took this sort of logic so far that he ended up ar-
guing that the only way to optimize the overall profit of humanity was
to abandon the pursuit of private profit entirely and adopt a principle
of what he called "universal love" — essentially arguing that if one takes
the principle of market exchange to its logical conclusion, it can only
lead to a kind of communism.

The Confucians took the opposite approach, rejecting the initial
premise. A good example is most of the opening of Mencius' much-
remembered conversation with King Hui:

"Venerable Sir," the King greeted him, "since you have not
counted a thousand miles too far to come here, may I suppose
that you also have something with which you may profit my
kingdom?"

Mencius replied:

"Why must Your Majesty necessarily use this word 'profit'?
What I have are only these two topics: benevolence and righ-
teousness, and nothing else."64

Still, the end-point was roughly the same. The Confucian ideal of
ren, of humane benevolence, was basically just a more complete inver-
sion of profit-seeking calculation than Mo Di's universal love; the main
difference was that the Confucians added a certain aversion to calcula-
tion itself, preferring what might almost be called an art of decency.
Taoists were later to take this even further with their embrace of intu-
ition and spontaneity. All were so many attempts to provide a mirror
image of market logic. Still, a mirror image is, ultimately, just that: the
same thing, only backwards. Before long we end up with an endless
maze of paired opposites — egoism versus altruism, profit versus char-
ity, materialism versus idealism, calculation versus spontaneity — none
of which could ever have been imagined except by someone starting
out from pure, calculating, self-interested market transactions.65

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243

Materialism II:
Substance

As in the near presence of death, de-
spise poor flesh, this refuse of blood and
bones, this web and tissue of nerves and
veins and arteries.

— Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 2.2

Taking pity on the hungry wolf, Wen-
shuang announced, "I do not covet this
filthy bag of meat. I give it over to you
that I may quickly acquire a body of
more enduring strength. This donation
will help benefit us both."

— Discourse on the Pure Land 21.12

As I've already observed, China was unusual because philosophy there
began with debates about ethics and only later turned to speculations
about the nature of the cosmos. In both Greece and India, cosmological
speculation came first. In each, too, questions about the nature of the
physical universe quickly give way to speculation about mind, truth,
consciousness, meaning, language, illusion, world-spirits, cosmic intel-
ligence, and the fate of the human soul.

This particular maze of mirrors is so complex and dazzling that
it's extraordinarily difficult to discern the starting point — that is, what,
precisely, is being reflected back and forth. Here anthropology can be
helpful, as anthropologists have the unique advantage of being able to
observe how human beings who have not previously been part of these
conversations react when first exposed to Axial Age concepts. Every
now and then too, we are presented with moments of exceptional
clarity: ones that reveal the essence of our own thought to be almost
exactly the opposite of what we thought it to be.

Maurice Leenhardt, a Catholic missionary who had spent many
long years teaching the Gospel in New Caledonia, experienced such
a moment in the 1920s, when he asked one of his students, an aged
sculptor named Boesoou, how he felt about having been introduced to
spiritual ideas:

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Once, waiting to assess the mental progress of the Canaques I
had taught for many years, I risked the following suggestion:
"In short, we introduced the notion of the spirit to your way
of thinking?"

He objected, "Spirit? Bah! You didn't bring us the spirit.
We already knew the spirit existed. We have always acted in
accord with the spirit. What you've brought us is the body."66

The notion that humans had souls appeared to Boesoou to be self-
evident. The notion that there was such a thing as the body, apart from
the soul, a mere material collection of nerves and tissues — let alone
that the body is the prison of the soul; that the mortification of the
body could be a means to the glorification or liberation of the soul — all
this, it turns out, struck him as utterly new and exotic.

Axial Age spirituality, then, is built on a bedrock of materialism.
This is its secret; one might almost say, the thing that has become
invisible to us.67 But if one looks at the very beginnings of philosophi-
cal inquiry in Greece and India — the point when there was as yet no
difference between what we'd now call "philosophy" and what we'd
now call "science" — this is exactly what one finds. "Theory," if we can
call it that, begins with the questions: "What substance is the world
made of?" "What is the underlying material behind the physical forms
of objects in the world?" "Is everything made up of varying combina-
tions of certain basic elements (earth, air, water, fire, stone, motion,
mind, number . . .), or are these basic elements just the forms taken by
some even more elementary substance (for instance, as Nyaya and later
Democritus proposed, atomic particles . . .)"68 In just about every case,
some notion of God, Mind, Spirit, some active organizing principle
that gave form to and was not itself substance, emerged as well. But
this was the kind of spirit that, like Leenhardt's God, only emerges in
relation to inert matter.69

To connect this impulse, too, with the invention of coinage might
seem like pushing things a bit far but, at least for the Classical world,
there is an emerging scholarly literature — first set off by Harvard liter-
ary theorist Marc Shell, and more recently set forth by British classicist
Richard Seaford in a book called Money and the Early Greek Mind —
that aims to do exactly that.70

In fact, some of the historical connections are so uncannily close
that they are very hard to explain any other way. Let me give an ex-
ample. After the first coins were minted around 600 BC in the kingdom
of Lydia, the practice quickly spread to Ionia, the Greek cities of the
adjacent coast. The greatest of these was the great walled metropolis of

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245

Miletus, which also appears to have been the first Greek city to strike
its own coins. It was Ionia, too, that provided the bulk of the Greek
mercenaries active in the Mediterranean at the time, with Miletus their
effective headquarters. Miletus was also the commercial center of the
region, and, perhaps, the first city in the world where everyday mar-
ket transactions came to be carried out primarily in coins instead of
credit.71 Greek philosophy, in turn, begins with three men: Thales, of
Miletus (c. 624 bc-c. 546 bc), Anaximander, of Miletus (c. 610 bc-c.
546 bc), and Anaximenes, of Miletus (c. 585 bc-c. 52.5 bc) — in other
words, men who were living in that city at exactly the time that coin-
age was first introduced.72 All three are remembered chiefly for their
speculations on the nature of the physical substance from which the
world ultimately sprang. Thales proposed water, Anaximenes, air.
Anaximander made up a new term, apeiron, "the unlimited," a kind of
pure abstract substance that could not itself be perceived but was the
material basis of everything that could be. In each case, the assumption
was that this primal substance, by being heated, cooled, combined, di-
vided, compressed, extended, or set in motion, gave rise to the endless
particular stuffs and substances that humans actually encounter in the
world, from which physical objects are composed — and was also that
into which all those forms would eventually dissolve.

It was something that could turn into everything. As Seaford em-
phasizes, so was money. Gold, shaped into coins, is a material sub-
stance that is also an abstraction. It is both a lump of metal and some-
thing more than a lump of metal — it's a drachma or an obol, a unit of
currency which (at least if collected in sufficient quantity, taken to the
right place at the right time, turned over to the right person) could be
exchanged for absolutely any other object whatsoever.73

For Seaford, what was genuinely new about coins was their double-
sidedness: the fact that they were both valuable pieces of metal and, at
the same time, something more. At least within the communities that
created them, ancient coins were always worth more than the gold,
silver, or copper of which they were composed. Seaford refers to this
extra value by the inelegant term "fiduciarity," which comes from the
term for public trust, the confidence a community places in its curren-
cy.74 True, at the height of Classical Greece, when there were hundreds
of city-states producing different currencies according to a number of
different systems of weights and denominations, merchants often did
carry scales and treat coins — particularly foreign coins — like so many
chunks of silver, just as Indian merchants seem to have treated Roman
coins; but within a city, that city's currency had a special status, since
it was always acceptable at face value when used to pay taxes, public

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fees, or legal penalties. This is, incidentally, why ancient governments
were so often able to introduce base metal into their coins without
leading to immediate inflation; a debased coin might have lost value
when traded overseas, but at home, it was still worth just as much
when purchasing a license, or entering the public theater.75 This is also
why, during pubic emergencies, Greek city-states would occasionally
strike coins made entirely of bronze or tin, which everyone would
agree, while the emergency lasted, to treat as if they were really made
of silver.76

This is the key to Seaford's argument about materialism and Greek
philosophy. A coin was a piece of metal, but by giving it a particular
shape, stamped with words and images, the civic community agreed
to make it something more. But this power was not unlimited. Bronze
coins could not be used forever; if one debased the coinage, inflation
would eventually set in. It was as if there was a tension there, between
the will of the community and the physical nature of the object itself.
Greek thinkers were suddenly confronted with a profoundly new type
of object, one of extraordinary importance — as evidenced by the fact
that so many men were willing to risk their lives to get their hands on
it — but whose nature was a profound enigma.

Consider this word, "materialism." What does it mean to adopt a
"materialist" philosophy? What is "material," anyway? Normally, we
speak of "materials" when we refer to objects that we wish to make
into something else. A tree is a living thing. It only becomes "wood"
when we begin to think about all the other things you could carve out
of it. And of course you can carve a piece of wood into almost any-
thing. The same is true of clay, or glass, or metal. They're solid and
real and tangible, but also abstractions, because they have the potential
to turn into almost anything else — or, not precisely that; one can't turn
a piece of wood into a lion or an owl, but one can turn it into an image
of a lion or an owl — it can take on almost any conceivable form. So
already in any materialist philosophy, we are dealing with an opposi-
tion between form and content, substance and shape; a clash between
the idea, sign, emblem, or model in the creator's mind, and the physical
qualities of the materials on which it is to be stamped, built, or im-
posed, from which it will be brought into reality.77 With coins this rises
to an even more abstract level because that emblem can no longer be
conceived as the model in one person's head, but is rather the mark of
a collective agreement. The images stamped on Greek coins (Miletus'
lion, Athens' owl) were typically the emblems of the city's god, but
they were also a kind of collective promise, by which citizens assured
one another that not only would the coin be acceptable in payment of

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public debts, but in a larger sense, that everyone would accept them,
for any debts, and thus, that they could be use to acquire anything
anyone wanted.

The problem is that this collective power is not unlimited. It only
really applies within the city. The farther you go outside, into places
dominated by violence, slavery, and war — the sort of place where even
philosophers taking a cruise might end up on the auction block — the
more it turns into a mere lump of precious metal.78

The war between Spirit and Flesh, then, between the noble Idea
and ugly Reality, the rational intellect versus stubborn corporeal drives
and desires that resist it, even the idea that peace and community are
not things that emerge spontaneously but that need to be stamped onto
our baser material natures like a divine insignia stamped into base
metal — all those ideas that came to haunt the religious and philosophi-
cal traditions of the Axial Age, and that have continued to surprise
people like Boesoou ever since — can already be seen as inscribed in the
nature of this new form of money.

It would be foolish to argue that all Axial Age philosophy was sim-
ply a meditation on the nature of coinage, but I think Seaford is right
to argue that this is a critical starting place: one of the reasons that the
pre-Socratic philosophers began to frame their questions in the peculiar
way they did, asking (for instance): What are Ideas? Are they merely
collective conventions? Do they exist, as Plato insisted, in some divine
domain beyond material existence? Or do they exist in our minds? Or
do our minds themselves ultimately partake of that divine immate-
rial domain? And if they do, what does this say about our relation to
our bodies?

In India and China, the debate took different forms, but materialism
was always the starting point. We only know the ideas of most truly
materialist thinkers from the works of their intellectual enemies: as is
the case with the Indian king Payasi, who enjoyed debating Buddhist
and Jain philosophers, taking the position that the soul does not exist,
that human bodies are nothing but particular configurations of air, wa-
ter, earth, and fire, their consciousness the result of the elements' mu-
tual interaction, and that when we die, the elements simply dissolve.79
Clearly, though, such ideas were commonplace. Even the Axial Age
religions are often startlingly lacking in the plethora of supernatural
forces seen before and after: as witnessed by continued debates over
whether Buddhism even is a religion, since it rejects any notion of a

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supreme being, or whether Confucius' admonitions that one should
continue to venerate one's ancestors was merely a way of encouraging
filial piety, or based on a belief that dead ancestors did, in some sense,
continue to exist. The fact that we have to ask says everything. Yet at
the same time, what endures, above all, from that age — in institutional
terms — are what we call the "world religions."

What we see then is a strange kind of back-and-forth, attack and
riposte, whereby the market, the state, war, and religion all continually
separate and merge with one another. Let me summarize it as briefly
as I can:

1) Markets appear to have first emerged, in the Near East at least, as
a side effect of government administrative systems. Over time, how-
ever, the logic of the market became entangled in military affairs,
where it became almost indistinguishable from the mercenary logic
of Axial Age warfare, and then, finally, that logic came to conquer
government itself; to define its very purpose.

2) As a result: everywhere we see the military-coinage-slavery complex
emerge, we also see the birth of materialist philosophies. They are
materialist, in fact, in both senses of the term: in that they envision
a world made up of material forces, rather than divine powers, and
in that they imagine the ultimate end of human existence to be the
accumulation of material wealth, with ideals like morality and jus-
tice being reframed as tools designed to satisfy the masses.

3) Everywhere, too, we find philosophers who react to this by explor-
ing ideas of humanity and the soul, attempting to find a new foun-
dation for ethics and morality.

4) Everywhere some of these philosophers made common cause with
social movements that inevitably formed in the face of these new
and extraordinarily violent and cynical elites. The result was some-
thing new to human history: popular movements that were also
intellectual movements, due to the assumption that those opposing
existing power arrangements did so in the name of some kind of
theory about the nature of reality.

5) Everywhere, these movements were first and foremost peace move-
ments, in that they rejected the new conception of violence, and
especially aggressive war, as the foundation of politics.

6) Everywhere too, there seems to have been an initial impulse to use
the new intellectual tools provided by impersonal markets to come
up with a new basis for morality, and everywhere, it foundered.
Mohism, with its notion of social profit, flourished briefly and
then collapsed. It was replaced by Confucianism, which rejected
such ideas outright. We have already seen that reimagining moral

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responsibility in terms of debt — an impulse that cropped up in both
Greece and India — while almost inevitable given the new economic
circumstances, seems to prove uniformly unsatisfying.80 The strong-
er impulse is to imagine another world where debt — and with it,
all other worldly connections — can be entirely annihilated, where
social attachments are seen as forms of bondage; just as the body is
a prison.

7) Rulers' attitudes changed over time. At first, most appear to have
affected an attitude of bemused tolerance toward the new philo-
sophical and religious movements while privately embracing some
version of cynical realpolitik, But as warring cities and principalities
were replaced by great empires, and especially, as those empires
began to reach the limits of their expansion, sending the military-
coinage-slavery complex into crisis, all this suddenly changed. In
India, Asoka tried to re-found his kingdom on Buddhism; in Rome,
Constantine turned to the Christians; in China, the Han emperor
Wu-Ti (157-87 BC), faced with a similar military and financial crisis,
adopted Confucianism as the philosophy of state. Of the three, only
Wu Ti was ultimately successful: the Chinese empire endured, in one
form or another, for two thousand years, almost always with Con-
fucianism as its official ideology. In Constantine's case the Western
empire fell apart, but the Roman church endured. Asoka's project
could be said to be the least successful. Not only did his empire fall
apart, replaced by an endless series of weaker, usually fragmentary
kingdoms, but Buddhism itself was largely driven out of his one-time
territories, though it did establish itself much more firmly in China,
Nepal, Tibet, Sri Lanka, Korea, Japan, and much of Southeast Asia.

8) The ultimate effect was a kind of ideal division of spheres of human
activity that endures to this day: on the one hand the market, on the
other, religion. To put the matter crudely: if one relegates a certain
social space simply to the selfish acquisition of material things, it
is almost inevitable that soon someone else will come to set aside
another domain in which to preach that, from the perspective of ul-
timate values, material things are unimportant; that selfishness — or
even the self — are illusory, and that to give is better than to receive.
If nothing else, it is surely significant that all the Axial Age religions
emphasized the importance of charity, a concept that had barely
existed before. Pure greed and pure generosity are complementary
concepts; neither could really be imagined without the other; both
could only arise in institutional contexts that insisted on such pure
and single-minded behavior; and both seem to have appeared to-
gether wherever impersonal, physical, cash money also appeared on
the scene.

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As for the religious movements: it would be easy enough to write
them off as escapist, as promising the victims of the Axial Age em-
pires liberation in the next world as a way of letting them accept their
lot in this one, and convincing the rich that all they really owed the
poor were occasional charitable donations. Radical thinkers almost
invariably do write them off in this way. Surely, the willingness of
the governments themselves to eventually embrace them would seem
to support this conclusion. But the issue is more complicated. First of
all, there is something to be said for escapism. Popular uprisings in
the ancient world usually ended in the massacre of the rebels. As I've
already observed, physical escape, such as via exodus or defection,
has always been the most effective response to oppressive conditions
since the earliest times we know about. Where physical escape is not
possible, what, exactly, is an oppressed peasant supposed to do? Sit
and contemplate her misery? At the very least, otherworldly religions
provided glimpses of radical alternatives. Often they allowed people
to create other worlds within this one, liberated spaces of one sort or
another. It is surely significant that the only people who succeeded in
abolishing slavery in the ancient world were religious sects, such as the
Essenes — who did so, effectively, by defecting from the larger social
order and forming their own Utopian communities.81 Or, in a smaller
but more enduring example: the democratic city-states of northern In-
dia were all eventually stamped out by the great empires (Kautilya
provides extensive advice on how to subvert and destroy democratic
constitutions), but the Buddha admired the democratic organization of
their public assemblies and adopted it as the model for his followers.82
Buddhist monasteries are still called sangha, the ancient name for such
republics, and continue to operate by the same consensus-finding pro-
cess to this day, preserving a certain egalitarian democratic ideal that
would otherwise have been entirely forgotten.

Finally, the larger historical achievements of these movements are
not, in fact, insignificant. As they took hold, things began to change.
Wars became less brutal and less frequent. Slavery faded as an in-
stitution, to the point at which, by the Middle Ages, it had become
insignificant or even nonexistent across most of Eurasia. Everywhere
too, the new religious authorities began to seriously address the social
dislocations introduced by debt.

Chapter Ten

THE MIDDLE AGES

(600 -1450 AD)

Artificial wealth comprises the things
which of themselves satisfy no natu-
ral need, for example money, which is a
human contrivance.

— St. Thomas Aquinas

IF THE AXIAL AGE saw the emergence of complementary ideals of
commodity markets and universal world religions, the Middle Ages
were the period in which those two institutions began to merge.

Everywhere, the age began with the collapse of empires. Eventual-
ly, new states formed, but in these new states, the nexus between war,
bullion, and slavery was broken; conquest and acquisition for their
own sake were no longer celebrated as the end of all political life. At
the same time, economic life, from the conduct of international trade
to the organization of local markets, came to fall increasingly under
the regulation of religious authorities. One result was a widespread
movement to control, or even forbid, predatory lending. Another was
a return, across Eurasia, to various forms of virtual credit money.

Granted, this is not the way we're used to thinking of the Middle
Ages. For most of us, "Medieval" remains a synonym for superstition,
intolerance, and oppression. Yet for most of the earth's inhabitants, it
could only be seen as an extraordinary improvement over the terrors
of the Axial Age.

One reason for our skewed perception is that we're used to think-
ing of the Middle Ages as something that happened primarily in West-
ern Europe, in territories that had been little more than border outposts
of the Roman Empire to begin with. According to the convention-
al wisdom, with the collapse of the empire, the cities were largely

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abandoned and the economy "reverted to barter," taking at least five
centuries to recover. Even for Europe, though, this is based on a series
of unquestioned assumptions that, as I've said, crumble the moment
one starts seriously poking at them. Chief among them is the idea that
the absence of coins means the absence of money. True, the destruction
of the Roman war machine also meant that Roman coins went out of
circulation; and the few coins produced within the Gothic or Frankish
kingdoms that established themselves over the ruins of the old empire
were largely fiduciary in nature.1 Still, a glance at the "barbarian law
codes" reveals that even at the height of the Dark Ages, people were still
carefully keeping accounts in Roman money as they calculated interest
rates, contracts, and mortgages. Again, cities shriveled, and many were
abandoned, but even this was something of a mixed blessing. Certainly,
it had a terrible effect on literacy; but one must also bear in mind that
ancient cities could only be maintained by extracting resources from
the countryside. Roman Gaul, for instance, had been a network of
cities, connected by the famous Roman roads to an endless succession
of slave plantations, which were owned by the urban grandees.2 After
around 400 ad, the population of the towns declined radically, but the
plantations also disappeared. In the following centuries, many came to
be replaced by manors, churches, and even later, castles — where new
local lords extracted their own dues from the surrounding farmers. But
one need only do the math: since Medieval agriculture was no less ef-
ficient than ancient agriculture (in fact, it rapidly became a great deal
more so), the amount of work required to feed a handful of mounted
warriors and clergymen could not possibly have been anything like that
required to feed entire cities. However oppressed Medieval serfs might
have been, their plight was nothing compared with that of their Axial
Age equivalents.

Still, the Middle Ages proper are best seen as having begun not
in Europe but in India and China, between 400 and 600 ad, and then
sweeping across much of the western half of Eurasia with the advent of
Islam. They only really reached Europe four hundred years later. Let
us begin our story, then, in India.

Medieval India
(Flight into Hierarchy)

I left off in India with Asoka's embrace of Buddhism, but I noted that
ultimately, his project foundered. Neither his empire nor his church

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253

was to endure. It took a good deal of time, however, for this failure
to occur.

The Mauryans represented a high watermark of empire. The next
five hundred years saw a succession of kingdoms, most of them strong-
ly supportive of Buddhism. Stupas and monasteries sprang up every-
where, but the states that sponsored them grew weaker and weaker;
centralized armies dissolved; soldiers, like officials, increasingly came
to be paid by land grants rather than salaries. As a result, the number
of coins in circulation steadily declined.3 Here too, the early Middle
Ages witnessed a dramatic decline of cities: where the Greek ambassa-
dor Megasthenes described Asoka's capital of Patna as the largest city
in the world of his day, Medieval Arab and Chinese travelers described
India as a land of endless tiny villages.

As a result, most historians have come to write, much as they do
in Europe, of a collapse of the money economy; of commerce becom-
ing a "reversion to barter." Here too, this appears to be simply untrue.
What vanished were the military means to extract resources from the
peasants. In fact, Hindu law-books written at the time show increasing
attention to credit arrangements, with a sophisticated language of sure-
ties, collateral, mortgages, promissory notes, and compound interest.4
One need only consider how the Buddhist establishments popping up
all over India during these centuries were funded. While the earliest
monks were wandering mendicants, owning little more than their beg-
ging bowls, early Medieval monasteries were often magnificent estab-
lishments with vast treasuries. Still, in principle, their operations were
financed almost entirely through credit.

The key innovation was the creation of what were called the "per-
petual endowments" or "inexhaustible treasuries." Say a lay supporter
wished to make a contribution to her local monastery. Rather than
offering to provide candles for a specific ritual, or servants to attend to
the upkeep of the monastic grounds, she would provide a certain sum
of money — or something worth a great deal of money — that would
then be loaned out in the name of the monastery, at the accepted 15
-percent annual rate. The interest on the loan would then be earmarked
for that specific purpose.5 An inscription discovered at the Great Mon-
astery of Sanci sometime around 450 ad provides a handy illustration.
A woman named Harisvamini donates the relatively modest sum of
twelve dinar as to the "Noble Community of Monks."6 The text care-
fully inscribes how the income is to be divided up: the interest on five
of the dinaras was to provide daily meals for five different monks,
the interest from another three would pay to light three lamps for
the Buddha, in memory of her parents, and so forth. The inscription

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ends by saying that this was a permanent endowment, "created with a
document in stone to last as long as the moon and the sun": since the
principal would never be touched, the contribution would last forever.7

Some of these loans presumably went to individuals, others were
commercial loans to "guilds of bamboo-workers, braziers, and pot-
ters," or to village assemblies.8 We have to assume that in most cases
the money is an accounting unit: what were really being transacted
were animals, wheat, silk, butter, fruit, and all the other goods whose
appropriate rates of interest were so carefully stipulated in the law-
codes of the time. Still, large amounts of gold did end up flowing into
monastic coffers. When coins go out of circulation, after all, the metal
doesn't simply disappear. In the Middle Ages — and this seems to have
been true across Eurasia — the vast majority of it ended up in religious
establishments, churches, monasteries, and temples, either stockpiled
in hoards and treasuries or gilded onto or cast into altars, sanctums,
and sacred instruments. Above all, it was shaped into images of gods.
As a result, those rulers who did try to put an Axial Age-style coin-
age system back into circulation — invariably, to fund some project of
military expansion — often had to pursue self-consciously anti-religious
policies in order to do so. Probably the most notorious was one Harsa,
who ruled Kashmir from 1089 to 1101 ad, who is said to have ap-
pointed an officer called the "Superintendent for the Destruction of the
Gods." According to later histories, Harsa employed leprous monks to
systematically desecrate divine images with urine and excrement, thus
neutralizing their power, before dragging them off to be melted down.9
He is said to have destroyed more than four thousand Buddhist estab-
lishments before being betrayed and killed, the last of his dynasty — and
his miserable fate was long held out as an example of where the revival
of the old ways was likely to lead one in the end.

For the most part, then, the gold remained sacrosanct, laid up in
the sacred places — though in India, over time these were increasingly
Hindu ones, not Buddhist. What we now see as traditional Hindu-
village India appears to have been largely a creation of the early Middle
Ages. We do not know precisely how it happened. As kingdoms contin-
ued to rise and fall, the world inhabited by kings and princes became
increasingly distant from that of most people's everyday affairs. During
much of the period immediately following the collapse of the Mau-
ryan empire, for instance, much of India was governed by foreigners.10
Apparently, this increasing distance allowed local Brahmins to begin
reshaping the new — increasingly rural — society along strictly hierarchi-
cal principles.

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255

They did it above all by seizing control of the administration of
law. The Dharmasastra, law-codes produced by Brahmin scholars be-
tween roughly 200 BC and 400 ad, give us a good idea of the new vision
of society. In it, old ideas like the Vedic conception of a debt to gods,
sages, and ancestors were resuscitated — but now, they applied only and
specifically to Brahmins, whose duty and privilege it was to stand in for
all humanity before the forces that controlled the universe." Far from
being required to attain learning, members of the inferior classes were
forbidden to do so: the Laws of Manu, for instance, set down that any
Sudra (the lowest caste, assigned to farming and material production)
who so much as listened in on the teaching of the law or sacred texts
should have molten lead poured into their ears; on the occasion of a
repeat offense, have their tongues cut out.12 At the same time Brahmins,
however ferociously they guarded their privileges, also adopted aspects
of once-radical Buddhist and Jain ideas like karma, reincarnation, and
ahimsa. Brahmins were expected to refrain from any sort of physical
violence, and even to become vegetarians. In alliance with representa-
tives of the old warrior caste, they also managed to win control of most
of the land in the ancient villages. Artisans and craftsmen fleeing the
decline or destruction of cities often ended up as suppliant refugees,
and, gradually, low-caste clients. The result were increasingly complex
local patronage systems in the countryside — jajmani systems, as they
came to be known — where the refugees provided services for the land-
owning castes, who took on many of the roles once held by the state,
providing protection and justice, extracting labor dues, and so on — but
also protected local communities from actual royal representatives.13

This latter function is crucial. Foreign visitors were later to be
awed by the self-sufficiency of the traditional Indian village, with its
elaborate system of landowning castes, farmers, and such "service
castes" as barbers, smiths, tanners, drummers, and washermen, all ar-
ranged in hierarchical order, each seen as making its own unique and
necessary contribution to their little society, all of it typically operat-
ing entirely without the use of metal currency. It was only possible
for those reduced to the status of Sudras and Untouchables to have
a chance of accepting their lowly position because the exaction of lo-
cal landlords was, again, on nothing like the same scale as that under
earlier governments — under which villagers had to support cities of up-
wards of a million people — and because the village community became
an effective means of holding the state and its representatives at least
partially at bay.

We don't know the mechanisms that brought this world about, but
the role of debt was surely significant. The creation of thousands of

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Hindu temples alone must have involved hundreds of thousands, even
millions, of interest-bearing loans — since, while Brahmins were them-
selves forbidden to lend money at interest, temples were not. We can
already see, in the earliest of the new law-codes, the Laws of Manu, the
way that local authorities were struggling to reconcile old customs like
debt peonage and chattel slavery with the desire to establish an over-
arching hierarchical system in which everyone knew their place. The
Laws of Manu carefully classify slaves into seven types depending on
how they were reduced to slavery (war, debt, self-sale . . .) and explain
the conditions under which each might be emancipated — but then go
on to say that Sudras can never really be emancipated, since, after all,
they were created to serve the other castes.14 Similarly, where earlier
codes had established a 15-percent annual rate of interest, with excep-
tions for commercial loans," the new codes organized interest by caste:
stating that one could charge a maximum of 2 percent a month for
a Brahmin, 3 percent for a Ksatriya (warrior), 4 percent for a Vaisya
(merchant), and 5 percent for a Sudra — which is the difference between
24 percent annually on the one extreme and a hefty 60 percent on the
other.16 The laws also identify five different ways interest can be paid,
of which the most significant for our concerns is "bodily interest":
physical labor in the creditor's house or fields, to be rendered until such
time as the principal is cleared. Even here, though, caste considerations
were paramount. No one could be forced into the service of anyone
of lower caste; moreover, since debts were enforceable on a debtor's
children and even grandchildren, "until the principal is cleared" could
mean quite some time — as the Indian historian R.S. Sharma notes, such
stipulations "remind us of the present practice according to which sev-
eral generations of the same family have been reduced to the position
of hereditary ploughmen in consideration of some paltry sum advanced
to them."17

Indeed, India has become notorious as a country, in which a very
large part of the working population is laboring in effective debt peon-
age to a landlord or other creditor. Such arrangements became even
easier over time. By about 1000 ad, restrictions on usury by members
of the upper castes in Hindu law-codes largely disappeared. On the
other hand, 1000 ad was about the same time that Islam appeared
in India — a religion dedicated to eradicating usury altogether. So at
the very least we can say that these things never stopped being con-
tested. And even Hindu law of that time was far more humane than
almost anything found in the ancient world. Debtors were not, gener-
ally speaking, reduced to slavery, and there is no widespread evidence
of the selling of women or children. In fact, overt slavery had largely

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257

vanished from the countryside by this time. And debt peons were not
even pawns, exactly; by law, they were simply paying interest on a
freely contracted agreement. Even when that took generations, the law
stipulated that even if the principal was never paid, in the third genera-
tion, they would be freed.

There is a peculiar tension here: a kind of paradox. Debt and
credit arrangements may well have played a crucial role in creating the
Indian village system, but they could never really become their basis. It
might have made a certain sense to declare that, just as Brahmins had
to dispatch their debts to the gods, everyone should be, in a certain
sense, in debt to those above them. But in another sense, that would
have completely subverted the very idea of caste, which was that the
universe was a vast hierarchy in which different sorts of people were
assumed to be of fundamentally different natures, that these ranks and
grades were fixed forever, and that when goods and services moved
up and down the hierarchy, they followed not principles of exchange
at all but (as in all hierarchical systems) custom and precedent. The
French anthropologist Louis Dumont made the famous argument that
one cannot even really talk about "inequality" here, because to use
that phrase implies that one believes people should or could be equal,
and this idea was completely alien to Hindu conceptions.18 For them
to have imagined their responsibilities as debts would have been pro-
foundly subversive, since debts are by definition arrangements between
equals — at least in the sense that they are equal parties to a contract —
that could and should be repaid.19

Politically, it is never a particularly good idea to first tell people
they are your equals, and then humiliate and degrade them. This is
presumably why peasant insurrections, from Chiapas to Japan, have so
regularly aimed to wipe out debts, rather than focus on more structural
issues like caste systems, or even slavery.20 The British Raj discov-
ered this to their occasional chagrin when they used debt peonage —
superimposed on the caste system — as the basis of their labor system
in colonial India. Perhaps the paradigmatic popular insurrection was
the Deccan riots of 1875, when indebted farmers rose up to seize and
systematically destroy the account books of local money-lenders. Debt
peonage, it would appear, is far more likely to inspire outrage and col-
lective action than is a system premised on pure inequality.

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China:

Buddhism and the Economy of Infinite Debt

By Medieval standards, India was unusual for resisting the appeal of
the great Axial Age religions, but we observe the basic pattern: the
decline of empire, armies, and cash economy, the rise of religious au-
thorities, independent of the state, who win much of their popular
legitimacy through their ability to regulate emerging credit systems.

China might be said to represent the opposite extreme. This was
the one place where a late Axial Age attempt to yoke empire and re-
ligion together was a complete success. True, here as elsewhere, there
was an initial period of breakdown: after the collapse of the Han dy-
nasty around 220 ad, the central state broke apart, cities shrank, coins
disappeared, and so on. But in China this was only temporary. As Max
Weber long ago pointed out, once one sets up a genuinely effective
bureaucracy, it's almost impossible to get rid of it. And the Chinese
bureaucracy was uniquely effective. Before long, the old Han system
reemerged: a centralized state, run by Confucian scholar-gentry trained
in the literary classics, selected through a national exam system, work-
ing in meticulously organized national and regional bureaus where the
money supply, like other economic matters, was continually monitored
and regulated. Chinese monetary theory was always chartalist. This
was partly just an effect of size: the empire and its internal market were
so huge that foreign trade was never especially important; therefore,
those running the government were well aware that they could turn
pretty much anything into money, simply by insisting that taxes be
paid in that form.

The two great threats to the authorities were always the same:
the nomadic peoples to the north (who they systematically bribed, but
who nonetheless periodically swept over and conquered sections of
China) and popular unrest and rebellion. The latter was almost con-
stant, and on a scale unknown anywhere else in human history. There
were decades in Chinese history when the rate of recorded peasant
uprisings was roughly 1.8 per hour.11 What's more, such uprisings were
frequently successful. Most of the most famous Chinese dynasties that
were not the product of barbarian invasion (the Yuan or Qing) were
originally peasant insurrections (the Han, Tang, Sung, and Ming). In
no other part of the world do we see anything like this. As a result,
Chinese statecraft ultimately came down to funneling enough resources
to the cities to feed the urban population and keep the nomads at

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259

bay, without causing a notoriously contumacious rural population to
rise up in arms. The official Confucian ideology of patriarchal au-
thority, equal opportunity, promotion of agriculture, light taxes, and
careful government control of merchants seemed expressly designed
to appeal to the interests and sensibilities of a (potentially rebellious)
rural patriarch.22

One need hardly add that in these circumstances, limiting the dep-
redations of the local village loan shark — the traditional bane of rural
families — was a constant government concern. Over and over we hear
the same familiar story: peasants down on their luck, whether due to
natural disaster or the need to pay for a parent's funeral — would fall
into the hands of predatory lenders, who would seize their fields and
houses, forcing them to work or pay rent in what had once been their
own lands; the threat of rebellion would then drive the government
to institute a dramatic program of reforms. One of the first we know
about came in the form of a coup d'etat in 9 ad, when a Confucian
official named Wang Mang seized the throne to deal (so he claimed)
with a nationwide debt crisis. According to proclamations made at the
time, the practice of usury had caused the effective tax rate (that is, the
amount of the average peasant's harvest that ended up being carried
off by someone else) to rise from just over 3 percent, to 50 percent.23
In reaction, Wang Mang instituted a program reforming the currency,
nationalizing large estates, promoting state-run industries — including
public granaries — and banning private holding of slaves. Wang Mang
also established a state loan agency that would offer interest-free fu-
neral loans for up to ninety days for those caught unprepared by the
death of relatives, as well as long-term loans of 3 percent monthly or
10 percent annual income rates for commercial or agricultural invest-
ments.24 "With this scheme," one historian remarks, "Wang was confi-
dent that all business transactions would be under his scrutiny and the
abuse of usury would be forever eradicated."23

Needless to say, it was not, and later Chinese history is full of
similar stories: widespread inequality and unrest followed by the ap-
pointment of official commissions of inquiry, regional debt relief (either
blanket amnesties or annulments of all loans in which interest had ex-
ceeded the principal), cheap grain loans, famine relief, laws against the
selling of children.26 All this became the standard fare of government
policy. It was very unevenly successful; it certainly did not create an
egalitarian peasant Utopia, but it prevented any widespread return to
Axial Age conditions.

We are used to thinking of such bureaucratic interventions —
particularly the monopolies and regulations — as state restriction on

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"the market" — owing to the prevailing prejudice that sees markets as
quasi-natural phenomena that emerge by themselves, and governments
as having no role other than to squelch or siphon from them. I have
repeatedly pointed out how mistaken this is, but China provides a
particularly striking example. The Confucian state may have been the
world's greatest and most enduring bureaucracy, but it actively pro-
moted markets, and as a result, commercial life in China soon became
far more sophisticated, and markets more developed, than anywhere
else in the world.

This despite the fact that Confucian orthodoxy was overtly hostile
to merchants and even the profit motive itself. Commercial profit was
seen as legitimate only as compensation for the labor that merchants
expended in transporting goods from one place to another, but never
as fruits of speculation. What this meant in practice was that they were
pro-market but anti-capitalist.

Again, this seems bizarre, since we're used to assuming that capital-
ism and markets are the same thing, but, as the great French historian
Fernand Braudel pointed out, in many ways they could equally well be
conceived as opposites. While markets are ways of exchanging goods
through the medium of money — historically, ways for those with a sur-
plus of grain to acquire candles and vice versa (in economic shorthand,
C-M-C, for commodity-money-other commodity) — capitalism is first
and foremost the art of using money to get more money (M-C-M').
Normally, the easiest way to do this is by establishing some kind of
formal or de facto monopoly. For this reason, capitalists, whether mer-
chant princes, financiers, or industrialists, invariably try to ally them-
selves with political authorities to limit the freedom of the market, so as
to make it easier for them to do so.27 From this perspective, China was
for most of its history the ultimate anti-capitalist market state.28 Unlike
later European princes, Chinese rulers systematically refused to team
up with would-be Chinese capitalists (who always existed). Instead,
like their officials, they saw them as destructive parasites — though, un-
like the usurers, ones whose fundamentally selfish and antisocial mo-
tivations could still be put to use in certain ways. In Confucian terms,
merchants were like soldiers. Those drawn to a career in the military
were assumed to be driven largely by a love of violence. As individuals,
they were not good people; but they were also necessary to defend the
frontiers. Similarly, merchants were driven by greed and basically im-
moral; yet if kept under careful administrative supervision, they could
be made to serve the public good." Whatever one might think of the
principles, the results are hard to deny. For most of its history, China
maintained the highest standard of living in the world — even England

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261

only really overtook it in perhaps the 1820s, well past the time of the
Industrial Revolution.30

Confucianism is not precisely a religion, perhaps; it is usually con-
sidered more an ethical and philosophical system. So China too could
be considered something of a departure from the common Medieval
pattern, whereby commerce was, almost everywhere, brought under
the control of religion. But it wasn't a complete departure. One need
only consider the remarkable economic role of Buddhism in this same
period. Buddhism had arrived in China through the Central Asia cara-
van routes and in its early days was largely a religion promoted by
merchants, but in the chaos following the collapse of the Han dynasty
in 220 ad, it began to take popular roots. The Liang (502-557) and
Tang (618-907) dynasties saw outbreaks of passionate religious fervor,
in which thousands of rural young people across China would re-
nounce their farms, shops, and families to seek ordination as Buddhist
monks and nuns; where merchants or landed magnates pledged their
entire fortunes to the propagation of the Dharma; building projects
hollowed out whole mountains to create bodhisattvas and giant statues
of the Buddha; and pageants where monks and devotees ritually burned
their heads and hands or, in some instances, set themselves on fire. By
the mid-fifth century, there were dozens of such spectacular suicides;
they became, as one historian put it "a macabre kind of fashion."31

Historians differ over their meaning. Certainly the passions un-
leashed provided a dramatic alternative to the staid orthodoxy of the
Confucian literati, but it's also surprising, to say the least, to see this
in a religion promoted above all by the commercial classes. The French
Sinologist Jacques Gernet observes:

It is clear that these suicides, so contrary to traditional moral-
ity, aimed to redeem the sins of all beings, to compel the gods
and men at one and the same time. And they were staged:
usually, in the fifth century, a pyre was erected on a mountain.
The suicide took place in the presence of a large crowd uttering
lamentations and bringing forward rich offerings. People of all
social ranks attended the spectacle together. After the fire had
burned out, the ashes of the monk were collected and a stupa,
a new place of worship, was created to house them.32

Gernet's picture of dozens of Christ-like redeemers seems overstat-
ed, but the precise meaning of these suicides was unclear — and widely
debated — even in the Middle Ages. Some contemporaries saw them as
the ultimate expression of contempt for the body; others as recognition

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of the illusory nature of the self and all material attachments; yet oth-
ers, as the ultimate form of charity, the giving of that which can only
be most precious, one's very physical existence, as a sacrifice to the
benefit of all living things; a sentiment that one tenth-century biogra-
pher expressed in the following verses:

To give away the thing that is difficult to part with,
Is the best offering amongst the alms.
Let this impure and sinful body,
Turn into something like a diamond.3'

That is, an object of eternal value, an investment that can bear
fruit for all eternity.

I draw attention to this because this sentiment provides an elegant
illustration of a problem that seems to have first appeared in the world
with notions of pure charity that always seemed to accompany Axial
Age religions, and which provided endless philosophical conundrums.
In human economies, it does not appear to have occurred to anyone
that any act could be either purely selfish or purely altruistic. As I
noted in chapter five, an act of absolute selfless giving can only also be
absolutely antisocial — hence in a way, inhuman. It is merely the mirror
image of an act of theft or even murder; hence, it makes a certain sort
of sense that suicide be conceived as the ultimate selfless gift. Yet this
is the door that necessarily opens as soon as one develops a notion of
"profit" and then tries to conceive its opposite.

This tension seems to hang over the economic life of Medieval
Chinese Buddhism, which, true to its commercial origins, retained a
striking tendency to employ the language of the marketplace. "One
purchases felicity, and sells one's sins," wrote one monk, "just as
in commercial operations."34 Nowhere was this so true as in those
schools, such as the School of the Three Stages, that adopted the notion
of "karmic debt" — that each of the sins of one's accumulated past lives
continues as a debt needing to be discharged. An obscure and unusual
view in classical Indian Buddhism, the notion of karmic debt took on
a powerful new life in China.35 As one Three Stages text puts it, we all
know that insolvent debtors will be reborn as animals or slaves; but
in reality, we are all insolvent debtors, because acquiring the money to
repay our temporal debts necessarily means acquire new, spiritual ones,
since every means of acquiring wealth will necessarily involve exploit-
ing, damaging, and causing suffering to other living beings.

Some use their power and authority as officials in order to bend
the law and seize wealth. Some prosper in the marketplace . . .

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263

They engage in an excess of lies and cheat and extort prof-
its from others. Still others, farmers, burn the mountains and
marshes, flood the fields, plough and mill, destroying the nests
and burrows of animals . . .

There is no avoiding the fact of our past debts, and it is
difficult to comprehend the number of separate lives it would
require if you wanted to pay them one by one."'

As Gernet remarks, the idea of life as an endless burden of debt
would surely have struck a chord with Chinese villagers, for whom
this was all too often literally true; but, as he also points out, like their
counterparts in ancient Israel, they were also familiar with that sense
of sudden liberation that came with official amnesties. There was a
way to achieve that too. All that was required was to make regular
donations to some monastery's Inexhaustible Treasury. The moment
one does so, the debts from every one of one's past lives are instantly
blotted out. The author even provides a little parable, not unlike Je-
sus's parable of the ungrateful servant, but far more optimistic. How,
it might be asked, would a poor man's tiny contribution possibly have
such cosmic effects?

Answer: In a parable it is like a poor man burdened by a debt
of one thousand strings of coins to another person. He always
suffers from his debt, and the poor man is afraid whenever the
debt-master comes to collect.

He visits the rich man's house and confesses he is beyond
the time-limit and begs forgiveness for his offense — he is poor
and without a station in life. He tells him that each day he
makes a single coin he will return it to the rich man. On hear-
ing this, the rich man is very pleased and forgives him for being
overdue; moreover, the poor man is not dragged away to jail.

Giving to the Inexhaustible Storehouse is also like this.37

One might almost call this salvation on the installment plan — but
the implication is that the payments shall be made, like the interest
payments on the wealth when it is subsequently loaned out, for all
eternity.

Other schools concentrated not on karmic debt, but on one's debt
to one's parents. Where Confucians built their system of morality
above all on filial piety to fathers, Chinese Buddhists were primarily
concerned with mothers; with the care and suffering required in rais-
ing, feeding, and educating children. A mother's kindness is unlimited,
her selflessness absolute; this was seen to be embodied above all in the

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act of breastfeeding, the fact that mothers transform their very flesh
and blood into milk; they feed their children with their own bodies. In
doing so, however, they allow unlimited love to be precisely quantified.
One author calculated that the average infant absorbs precisely 180
pecks of mother's milk in its first three years of life, and this consti-
tutes its debt as an adult. The figure soon became canonical. To repay
this milk debt, or indeed one's debt to one's parents more generally,
was simply impossible. "If you stacked up jewels from the ground up
to the twenty-eighth heaven," wrote one Buddhist author, "it would
not compare" with the value of your parent's nurturance.38 Even if you
were to "cut your own flesh to offer her three times a day for four bil-
lion years," wrote another, "it would not pay back even a single day"
of what your mother did for you.39

The solution, however, is the same: donating money to the Inex-
haustible Treasuries. The result was an elaborate cycle of debts and
forms of redemption. A man begins with an unpayable milk-debt. The
only thing of comparable value is the Dharma, the Buddhist truth it-
self. One can thus repay one's parents by bringing them to Buddhism;
indeed, this can be done even after death, when one's mother will oth-
erwise wind up as a hungry ghost in hell. If one makes a donation to
the Inexhaustible Treasuries in her name, sutras will be recited for her;
she will be delivered; the money, in the meantime, will be put partly to
work as charity, as pure gift, but partly, too, as in India, as interest-
bearing loans, earmarked for specific purposes for the furtherance of
Buddhist education, ritual, or monastic life.

The Chinese Buddhist approach to charity was nothing if not mul-
tifaceted. Festivals often led to vast outpourings of contributions, with
wealthy adherents vying with one another in generosity, often driving
their entire fortunes to the monasteries, in the forms of oxcarts laden
with millions of strings of cash — a kind of economic self-immolation
that paralleled the spectacular monastic suicides. Their contributions
swelled the Inexhaustible Treasuries. Some would be given to the needy,
particularly in times of hardship. Some would be loaned. One practice
that hovered between charity and business was providing peasants with
alternatives to the local moneylender. Most monasteries had attendant
pawnshops where the local poor could place some valuable posses-
sion— a robe, a couch, a mirror — in hock in exchange for low-interest
loans.40 Finally, there was the business of the monastery itself: that por-
tion of the Inexhaustible Treasury turned over to the management of
lay brothers, and either put out at loan or invested. Since monks were
not allowed to eat the products of their own fields, the fruit or grain
had to be put on the market, further swelling monastic revenues. Most

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265

monasteries came to be surrounded not only by commercial farms but
veritable industrial complexes of oil presses, flour mills, shops, and
hostels, often with thousands of bonded workers.41 At the same time,
the Treasuries themselves became — as Gernet was perhaps the first to
point out — the world's first genuine forms of concentrated finance capi-
tal. They were, after all, enormous concentrations of wealth managed
by what were in effect monastic corporations, which were constantly
seeking new opportunities for profitable investment. They even shared
the quintessential capitalist imperative of continual growth; the Trea-
suries had to expand, since according to Mahayana doctrine, genu-
ine liberation would not be possible until the whole world embraced
the Dharma.42

This was precisely the situation — huge concentrations of capital in-
terested in nothing more than profit — that Confucian economic policy
was supposed to prevent. Still, it took some time for Chinese govern-
ments to recognize the threat. Government attitudes veered back and
forth. At first, especially in the chaotic years of the early Middle Ages,
monks were welcomed — even given generous land grants and provided
with convict laborers to reclaim forests and marshes, and tax-exempt
status for their business enterprises.4' A few emperors converted, and
while most of the bureaucracy kept the monks at arm's length, Bud-
dhism became especially popular with court women, as well as with
eunuchs and many scions of wealthy families. As time went on, though,
administrators turned from seeing monks as a boon to rural society to
its potential ruination. Already, by 511 ad, there were decrees condemn-
ing monks for diverting grain that was supposed to be used for charita-
ble purposes to high-interest loans, and altering debt contracts — a gov-
ernment commission had to be appointed to review the accounts and
nullify any loans in which interest was found to have exceeded princi-
pal. In 713 ad we have another decree, confiscating two Inexhaustible
Treasuries of the Three Stages sect, whose members they accused of
fraudulent solicitation.44 Before long there were major campaigns of
government repression, at first often limited to certain regions, but over
time, more often empire-wide. During the most severe, carried out in
845 ad, a total of 4,600 monasteries were razed along with their shops
and mills, 260,000 monks and nuns forcibly defrocked and returned to
their families — but at the same time, according to government reports,
150,000 temple serfs released from bondage.

Whatever the real reasons behind the waves of repression (and
these were no doubt many), the official reason was always the same:
a need to restore the money supply. The monasteries were becoming

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so large, and so rich, administrators insisted, that China was simply
running out of metal:

The great repressions of Buddhism under the Chou emperor
Wu between 574 and 577, under Wu-tsung in 842-845, and
finally in 955, presented themselves primarily as measures of
economic recovery: each of them provided an opportunity
for the imperial government to procure the necessary copper
for the minting of new coins.45

One reason is that monks appear to have been systematically melt-
ing down strings of coins, often hundreds of thousands at a time, to
build colossal copper or even gilded copper statues of the Buddha —
along with other objects such as bells and copper chimes, or even
such extravagances as mirrored halls or gilded copper roof tiles. The
result, according to official commissions of inquiry, was economi-
cally disastrous: the price of metals would soar, coinage disappear,
and rural marketplaces cease to function, even as those rural people
whose children had not become monks often fell deeper into debt to
the monasteries.

It perhaps stands to reason that Chinese Buddhism, a religion of mer-
chants that then took popular roots, should have developed in this di-
rection: a genuine theology of debt, even perhaps a practice of absolute
self-sacrifice, of abandoning everything, one's fortune or even one's life,
that ultimately led to collectively managed finance capital. The reason
that the result seems so weird, so full of paradoxes, is that it is again
an attempt to apply the logic of exchange to questions of Eternity.

Recall an idea from earlier in the book: exchange, unless it's an
instantaneous cash transaction, creates debts. Debts linger over time. If
you imagine all human relations as exchange, then insofar as people do
have ongoing relations with one another, those relations are laced with
debt and sin. The only way out is to annihilate the debt, but then social
relations vanish too. This is quite in accord with Buddhism, whose ul-
timate aim is indeed the attainment of "emptiness," absolute liberation,
the annihilation of all human and material attachments, since these are
all ultimately causes of suffering. For Mahayana Buddhists, however,
absolute liberation cannot be achieved by any one being independently;
the liberation of each depends on all the others; therefore, until the end
of time, such matters are in a certain sense always in suspension.

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267

In the meantime, exchange dominates: "One purchases felicity, and
sells one's sins, just as in commercial operations." Even acts of charity
and self-sacrifice are not purely generous; one is purchasing "merit"
from the bodhisattvas.4* The notion of infinite debt comes in when this
logic slams up against the Absolute, or, one might perhaps better say,
against something that utterly defies the logic of exchange. Because
there are things that do. This would explain, for instance, the odd urge
to first quantify the exact amount of milk one has absorbed at one's
mother's breast, and then to say that there is no conceivable way to
repay it. Exchange implies interaction between equivalent beings. Your
mother, on the other hand, is not an equivalent being. She created
you out of her own flesh. This is exactly the point that I suggested
the Vedic authors were subtly trying to make when they talked about
"debts" to the gods: of course you cannot really "pay your debt to the
universe" — that would imply that (i) you and (2) everything that exists
(including you) are in some sense equivalent entities. This is clearly
absurd. The closest you can come to repayment is to simply recognize
that fact. Such recognition is the true meaning of sacrifice. Like Ros-
pabe's original money, a sacrificial offering is not a way to pay a debt,
but a way to acknowledge the impossibility of the idea that there could
ever be repayment:

The parallel was not missed in certain mythological traditions.
According to one famous Hindu myth, two gods, the brothers
Kartikeya and Ganesha, had a quarrel over who should be
the first to marry. Their mother Parvati suggested a contest:
the winner would be the one to most quickly circle the entire
universe. Kartikeya set off on the back of a giant peacock. It
took him three years to transverse the limits of the cosmos.
Ganesha bided his time, then, finally, walked in a circle around
his mother, remarking, "You are the universe to me."

I've also argued that any system of exchange is always necessarily
founded on something else, something that, in its social manifesta-
tion at least, is ultimately communism. With all those things that we
treat as eternal, that we assume will always be there — our mother's
love, true friendship, sociality, humanity, belonging, the existence of
the cosmos — no calculation is necessary, or even ultimately possible;
insofar as there is give and take, they follow completely different prin-
ciples. What, then, happens to such absolute and unlimited phenomena
when one tries to imagine the world as a set of transactions — as ex-
change? Generally, one of two things. We either ignore or deify them.

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(Mothers, and caregiving women in general, are a classic case in point.)
Or we do both. What we treat as eternal in our actual relations with
one another vanishes and reappears as an abstraction, an absolute.47
In the case of Buddhism, this was framed as the inexhaustible merit
of bodhisatt-vas, who exist, in a certain sense, outside of time. They
are at once the model for the Inexhaustible Treasuries, and also their
practical foundation: one can only repay one's endless karmic debt,
or one's infinite milk-debt, by drawing on this equally infinite pool of
redemption, which, in turn, becomes the basis for the actual material
funds of the monasteries, which are' equally eternal — a pragmatic form
of communism, in fact, since they were vast pools of wealth collec-
tively owned and collectively managed: the center of vast projects of
human cooperation, which were assumed to be similarly eternal. Yet at
the same time — here I think Gernet is right — this communism became
the basis, in turn, of something very much like capitalism. The rea-
son was, above all, the need for constant expansion. Everything — even
charity — was an opportunity to proselytize; the Dharma had to grow,
ultimately, to encompass everyone and everything, in order to effect the
salvation of all living beings.

The Middle Ages were marked by a general move toward abstraction:
real gold and silver ended up largely in churches, monasteries, and
temples, money became virtual again, and at the same time, the ten-
dency everywhere was to set up overarching moral institutions meant
to regulate the process and, in particular, to establish certain protec-
tions for debtors.

China was unusual in that it was one place where an Axial Age
empire managed to survive — though at first, only barely. Chinese gov-
ernments did manage to keep coins in circulation in most places most
of the time. This was made easier by their reliance exclusively on
small-denomination coins made of bronze. Even so, it clearly took
enormous efforts.

As usual, we don't know a lot about how everyday economic
transactions took place, but what we do know suggests that in small-
scale transactions, coins were probably most often used in dealing with
strangers. As elsewhere, local shopkeepers and merchants extended
credit. Most accounts seem to have been kept through the use of tally
sticks, strikingly similar to those used in England, except that rather
than hazelwood they were usually made of a split piece of notched
bamboo. Here, too, the creditor took one half, and the debtor held the

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269

other; they were joined at the moment of repayment, and often broken
afterward to mark the cancellation of the debt.48 To what degree were
they transferable? We don't really know. Most of what we do know is
from casual references in texts that are mainly about something else:
anecdotes, jokes, and poetic allusions. The great collection of Taoist
wisdom, the Leizi, probably written during the Han dynasty, contains
one such:

There was a man of Sung who was strolling in the street and
picked up a half tally someone had lost. He took it home
and stored it away, and secretly counted the indentations of
the broken edge. He told a neighbor: "I shall be rich any day
now."49

Rather like someone who finds a key and figures "just as soon as I
can figure out which lock . . ."50 Another story tells of how Liu Bang,
a bibulous local constable and future founder of the Han dynasty,
used to go on all-night drinking binges, running up enormous tabs.
Once, while he lay collapsed in a drunken stupor in a wine-shop, the
owner saw a dragon hovering over his head — a sure sign of future
greatness — and immediately "broke the tally," forgiving him his ac-
cumulated drinking debts.51

Tallies weren't just used for loans, but for any sort of contract —
which is why early paper contracts also had to be cut in half and one
half kept by each party.52 With paper contracts, there was a definite
tendency for the creditor's half to function as an IOU and thus be-
come transferable. By 806 ad, for instance, right around the apogee
of Chinese Buddhism, merchants moving tea over long distances from
the far south of the country and officials transporting tax payments to
the capital, all of them concerned with the dangers of carrying bullion
over long distances, began to deposit their money with bankers in the
capital and devised a system of promissory notes. They were called
"Flying Cash," also divided in half, like tallies, and redeemable for
cash in their branches in the provinces. They quickly started passing
from hand to hand and operated something like currency. The govern-
ment first tried to forbid their use, then a year or two later — and this
became a familiar pattern in China — when it realized that it could not
suppress them, switched gears and established a bureau empowered to
issue such notes themselves.53

By the early Song dynasty (960-1279 ad), local banking operations
all over China were running similar operations, accepting cash and
bullion for safekeeping and allowing depositors to use their receipts as

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promissory notes, as well as trading in government coupons for salt
and tea. Many of these notes came to circulate as de facto money.54
The government, as usual, first tried to ban the practice, then control
it (granting a monopoly to sixteen leading merchants), then, finally, set
up a government monopoly — the Bureau of Exchange Medium, estab-
lished in 1023 — and before long, aided by the newly invented printing
press, was operating factories in several cities employing thousands of
workers and producing literally millions of notes.55

At first, this paper money was meant to circulate for a limited time
(notes would expire after two, then three, then seven years), and was
redeemable in bullion. Over time, especially as the Song came under
increasing military pressure, the temptation to simply print money with
little or no backup became overwhelming — and, moreover, Chinese
governments were rarely completely willing to accept their own pa-
per money for tax purposes. Combine this with the fact that the bills
were worthless outside China, and it's rather surprising that the system
worked at all. Certainly, inflation was a constant problem and the
money would have to be recalled and reissued. Occasionally the whole
system would break down, but then people would resort to their own
expedients: "privately issued tea checks, noodle checks, bamboo tallies,
wine tallies, etc."56 Still, the Mongols, who ruled China from 1271 to
1368 ad, chose to maintain the system, and it was only abandoned in
the seventeenth century.

This is important to note because the conventional account tends
to represent China's experiment with paper money as a failure, even,
for Metallists, proof that "fiat money," backed only by state power,
will always eventually collapse.57 This is especially odd, since the cen-
turies when paper money was in use are usually considered the most
economically dynamic in Chinese history. Surely, if the United States
government was eventually forced to abandon the use of federal re-
serve notes in 2400 ad, no one would be arguing that this showed that
the very idea was always intrinsically unworkable. Nonetheless, the
main point I'd like to emphasize here is that terms like "fiat money,"
however common, are deceptive. Almost all of the new forms of paper
money that emerged were not originally created by governments at
all; they were simply ways of recognizing and expanding the use of
credit instruments that emerged from everyday economic transactions.
If it was only China that developed paper money in the Middle Ages,
this was largely because only in China was there a government large
and powerful enough, but also, sufficiently suspicious of its mercantile
classes, to feel it had to take charge of such operations.

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The Near West:
Islam (Capital as Credit)

Prices depend on the will of Allah; it is
he who raises and lowers them.

— Attributed to the
Prophet Mohammed

The profit of each partner must be in
proportion to the share of each in the
adventure.

Islamic legal precept

For most of the Middle Ages, the economic nerve center of the world
economy and the source of its most dramatic financial innovations was
neither China nor India, but the West, which, from the perspective of
the rest of the world, meant the world of Islam. During most of this
period, Christendom, lodged in the declining empire of Byzantium and
the obscure semi-barbarous principalities of Europe, was largely insig-
nificant.

Since people who live in Western Europe have so long been in
the habit of thinking of Islam as the very definition of "the East,"
it's easy to forget that, from the perspective of any other great tradi-
tion, the difference between Christianity and Islam is almost negligible.
One need only pick up a book on, say, Medieval Islamic philosophy
to discover disputes between the Baghdad Aristoteleans and the neo-
Pythagoreans in Basra, or Persian Neo-Platonists — essentially, scholars
doing the same work of trying to square the revealed religion tradi-
tion beginning with Abraham and Moses with the categories of Greek
philosophy, and doing so in a larger context of mercantile capitalism,
universalistic missionary religion, scientific rationalism, poetic celebra-
tions of romantic love, and periodic waves of fascination with mystical
wisdom from the East.

From a world-historical perspective, it seems much more sensible
to see Judaism, Christianity, and Islam as three different manifestations
of the same great Western intellectual tradition, which for most of
human history has centered on Mesopotamia and the Levant, extend-
ing into Europe as far as Greece and into Africa as far as Egypt, and
sometimes farther west across the Mediterranean or down the Nile.
Economically, most of Europe was until perhaps the High Middle Ages

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in exactly the same situation as most of Africa: plugged into the larger
world economy, if at all, largely as an exporter of slaves, raw materials,
and the occasional exotica (amber, elephant tusks . . .), and importer
of manufactured goods (Chinese silks and porcelain, Indian calicoes,
Arab steel). To get a sense of comparative economic development (even
if the examples are somewhat scattered over time), consider the fol-
lowing table:58

Populations and Tax Revenue, 350 BC-1200 AD

Population Revenue Revenue

per Head

Millions Tons of Silver Grams of Silver

Persia, c. BC 350 17 697 41

Egypt, c. BC 200 7 384 55

Rome, c. 1 AD 50 825 17

Rome, c. 150 AD 50 1,050 21

Byzantium, c. 850 AD 10 150 15

Abbasids, c. 850 AD 26 1,260 48

T'ang, c. 850 AD 50 2,145 43

France, 1221 AD 8.5 20.3 2.4

England, 1203 AD 2.5 11.5 4.6

What's more, for most of the Middle Ages, Islam was not only the
core of Western civilization; it was its expansive edge, working its way
into India, expanding in Africa and Europe, sending missionaries and
winning converts across the Indian Ocean.

The prevailing Islamic attitude toward law, government, and eco-
nomic matters was the exact opposite of that prevalent in China. Con-
fucians were suspicious of governance through strict codes of law,
preferring to rely on the inherent sense of justice of the cultivated
scholar — a scholar who was simply assumed to also be a government
official. Medieval Islam, on the other hand, enthusiastically embraced
law, which was seen as a religious institution derived from the Prophet,
but tended to view government, more often than not, as an unfortunate
necessity, an institution that the truly pious would do better to avoid.59

In part this was because of the peculiar nature of Islamic govern-
ment. The Arab military leaders who, after Mohammed's death in
632 ad, conquered the Sassanian empire and established the Abbasid
Caliphate, always continued to see themselves as people of the desert,

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and never felt entirely part of the urban civilizations they had come
to rule. This discomfort was never quite overcome — on either side.
It took the bulk of the population several centuries to convert to the
conqueror's religion, and even when they did, they never seem to have
really identified with their rulers. Government was seen as military
power — necessary, perhaps, defend the faith, but fundamentally exte-
rior to society.

In part, too, it was because of the peculiar alliance between mer-
chants and common folk that came to be aligned against them. After
Caliph al-Ma'mum's abortive attempt to set up a theocracy in 832 ad,
the government took a hands-off position on questions of religion. The
various schools of Islamic law were free to create their own educational
institutions and maintain their own separate system of religious justice.
Crucially, it was the ulema, the legal scholars, who were the principal
agents in the conversion of the bulk of the empire's population to Islam
in Mesopotamia, Syria, Egypt, and North Africa in those same years.60
But — like the elders in charge of guilds, civic associations, commercial
sodalities, and religious brotherhoods — they did their best to keep the
government, with its armies and ostentation, at arm's length.61 "The
best princes are those who visit religious teachers," one proverb put
it, "the worst religious teachers are the those who allow themselves to
be visited by princes."62 A Medieval Turkish story brings it home even
more pointedly:

The king once summoned Nasruddin to court.

"Tell me," said the king, "you are a mystic, a philosopher,
a man of unconventional understandings. I have become in-
terested in the issue of value. It's an interesting philosophical
question. How does one establish the true worth of a person,
or an object? Take me for example. If I were to ask you to
estimate my value, what would you say?"

"Oh," Nasruddin said, "I'd say about two hundred dinars."

The emperor was flabbergasted. "What?! But this belt I'm
wearing is worth two hundred dinars!"

"I know," said Nasruddin. "Actually, I was taking the value
of the belt into consideration."

This disjuncture had profound economic effects. It meant that the
Caliphate, and later Muslim empires, could operate in many ways
much like the old Axial Age empires — creating professional armies,
waging wars of conquest, capturing slaves, melting down loot and
distributing it in the form of coins to soldiers and officials, demanding

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that those coins be rendered back as taxes — but at the same time, with-
out having nearly the same effects on ordinary people's lives.

Over the course of the wars of expansion, for example, enormous
quantities of gold and silver were indeed looted from palaces, temples,
and monasteries and stamped into coinage, allowing the Caliphate to
produce gold dinars and silver dirhams of remarkable purity — that is,
with next to no fiduciary element, the value of each coin corresponding
almost precisely to its weight in precious metal.63 As a result, they were
able to pay their troops extraordinarily well. A soldier in the Caliph's
army, for example, received almost four times the wages once received
by a Roman legionary.64 We can, perhaps, speak of a kind of "military-
coinage-slavery" complex here — but it existed in a kind of bubble.
Wars of expansion, and trade with Europe and Africa, did produce a
fairly constant flow of slaves, but in dramatic contrast to the ancient
world, very few of them ended up laboring in farms or workshops.
Most ended up as decoration in the houses of the rich, or, increasingly
over time, as soldiers. Over the course of the Abbasid dynasty (750-
1258 ad) in fact, the empire came to rely, for its military forces, almost
exclusively on Mamluks, highly trained military slaves captured or
purchased from the Turkish steppes. The policy of employing slaves as
soldiers was maintained by all of the Islamic successor states, includ-
ing the Mughals, and culminated in the famous Mamluk sultanate in
Egypt in the thirteenth century, but historically, it was unprecedented.65
In most times and places slaves are, for obvious reasons, the very last
people to be allowed anywhere near weapons. Here it was systematic.
But in a strange way, it also made perfect sense: if slaves are, by defini-
tion, people who have been severed from society, this was the logical
consequence of the wall created between society and the Medieval
Islamic state.66

Religious teachers appear to have done everything they could to
prop up the wall. One reason for the recourse to slave soldiers was their
tendency to discourage the faithful from serving in the military (since it
might mean fighting fellow believers). The legal system that they created
also ensured that it was effectively impossible for Muslims — or for that
matter Christian or Jewish subjects of the Caliphate — to be reduced to
slavery. Here al-Wahid seems to have been largely correct. Islamic law
took aim at just about all the most notorious abuses of earlier, Axial
Age societies. Slavery through kidnapping, judicial punishment, debt,
and the exposure or sale of children, even through the voluntary sale
of one's own person — all were forbidden, or rendered unenforceable.67
Likewise with all the other forms of debt peonage that had loomed
over the heads of poor Middle Eastern farmers and their families

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275

since the dawn of recorded history. Finally, Islam strictly forbade usu-
ry, which it interpreted to mean any arrangement in which money
or a commodity was lent at interest, for any purpose whatsoever.68

In a way, one can see the establishment of Islamic courts as the
ultimate triumph of the patriarchal rebellion that had begun so many
thousands of years before: of the ethos of the desert or the steppe,
real or imagined, even as the faithful did their best to keep the heavily
armed descendants of actual nomads confined to their camps and pal-
aces. It was made possible by a profound shift in class alliances. The
great urban civilizations of the Middle East had always been dominat-
ed by a de facto alliance between administrators and merchants, both
of whom kept the rest of the population either in debt peonage or in
constant peril of falling into it. In converting to Islam, the commercial
classes, so long the arch-villains in the eyes of ordinary farmers and
townsfolk, effectively agreed to change sides, abandon all their most
hated practices, and become instead the leaders of a society that now
defined itself against the state.

It was possible because from the beginning, Islam had a positive
view toward commerce. Mohammed himself had begun his adult life as
a merchant; and no Islamic thinker ever treated the honest pursuit of
profit as itself intrinsically immoral or inimical to faith. Neither did the
prohibitions against usury — which for the most part were scrupulously
enforced, even in the case of commercial loans — in any sense mitigate
against the growth of commerce, or even the development of complex
credit instruments.69 To the contrary, the early centuries of the Caliph-
ate saw an immediate efflorescence in both.

Profits were still possible because Islamic jurists were careful to
allow for certain service fees, and other considerations — notably, al-
lowing goods bought on credit to be priced slightly higher than those
bought for cash — that ensured that bankers and traders still had an
incentive to provide credit services.70 Still, these incentives were never
enough to allow banking to become a full-time occupation: instead,
almost any merchant operating on a sufficiently large scale could be
expected to combine banking with a host of other moneymaking activi-
ties. As a result, credit instruments soon became so essential to trade
that almost anyone of prominence was expected to keep most of his
or her wealth on deposit, and to make everyday transactions, not by
counting out coins, but by inkpot and paper. Promissory notes were
called sakk, "checks", or ruq'a, "notes." Checks could bounce. One
German historian, picking through a multitude of old Arabic literary
sources, recounts that:

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About 900 a great man paid a poet in this way, only the banker
refused the check, so that the disappointed poet composed a
verse to the effect that he would gladly pay a million on the
same plan. A patron of the same poet and singer (936) dur-
ing a concert wrote a check in his favor on a banker for five
hundred dinars. When paying, the banker gave the poet to un-
derstand that it was customary to charge one dirham discount
on each dinar, i.e., about ten per cent. Only if the poet would
spend the afternoon and evening with him, he would make no
deduction . . .

By about 1000 the banker had made himself indispensable in
Basra: every trader had his banking account, and paid only in
checks on his bank in the bazaar. . . .71

Checks could be countersigned and transferred, and letters of cred-
it {suftaja) could travel across the Indian Ocean or the Sahara.72 If they
did not turn into de facto paper money, it was because, since they oper-
ated completely independent of the state (they could not be used to pay
taxes, for instance), their value was based almost entirely on trust and
reputation.73 Appeal to the Islamic courts was generally voluntary or
mediated by merchant guilds and civic associations. In such a context,
having a famous poet compose verses making fun of you for bouncing
a check was probably the ultimate disaster.

When it came to finance, instead of interest-bearing investments,
the preferred approach was partnerships, where (often) one party
would supply the capital, the other carry out the enterprise. Instead
of fixed return, the investor would receive a share of the profits. Even
labor arrangements were often organized on a profit-sharing basis.74
In all such matters, reputation was crucial — in fact, one lively debate
in early commercial law was over the question of whether reputation
could (like land, labor, money, or other resources) itself be consid-
ered a form of capital. It sometimes happened that merchants would
form partnerships with no capital at all, but only their good names.
This was called "partnership of good reputation." As one legal scholar
explained:

As for the credit partnership, it is also called the "partnership
of the penniless" (sharika al-mafalis). It comes about when two
people form a partnership without any capital in order to buy
on credit and then sell. It is designated by this name partner-
ship of good reputations because their capital consists of their

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277

status and good reputations; for credit is extended only to him
who has a good reputation among people.75

Some legal scholars objected to the idea that such a contract could
be considered legally binding, since it was not based on an initial out-
lay of material capital; others considered it legitimate, provided the
partners make an equitable partition of the profits — since reputation
cannot be quantified. The remarkable thing here is the tacit recog-
nition that, in a credit economy that operates largely without state
mechanisms of enforcement (without police to arrest those who com-
mit fraud, or bailiffs to seize a debtor's property), a significant part of
the value of a promissory note is indeed the good name of the signa-
tory. As Pierre Bourdieu was later to point out in describing a similar
economy of trust in contemporary Algeria: it's quite possible to turn
honor into money, almost impossible to convert money into honor.76

These networks of trust, in turn, were largely responsible for the
spread of Islam over the caravan routes of Central Asia and the Sahara,
and especially across the Indian Ocean, the main conduit of Medieval
world trade. Over the course of the Middle Ages, the Indian Ocean ef-
fectively became a Muslim lake. Muslim traders appear to have played
a key role in establishing the principle that kings and their armies
should keep their quarrels on dry land; the seas were to be a zone of
peaceful commerce. At the same time, Islam gained a toehold in trade
emporia from Aden to the Moluccas because Islamic courts were so
perfectly suited to provide those functions that made such ports at-
tractive: means of establishing contracts, recovering debts, creating a
banking sector capable of redeeming or transferring letters of credit.77
The level of trust thereby created between merchants in the great Ma-
lay entrepot Malacca, gateway to the spice islands of Indonesia, was
legendary. The city had Swahili, Arab, Egyptian, Ethiopian, and Arme-
nian quarters, as well as quarters for merchants from different regions
of India, China, and Southeast Asia. Yet it was said that its merchants
shunned enforceable contracts, preferring to seal transactions "with a
handshake and a glance at heaven."78

In Islamic society, the merchant became not just a respected figure,
but a kind of paragon: like the warrior, a man of honor able to pursue
far-flung adventures; unlike him, able to do so in a fashion damaging
to no one. The French historian Maurice Lombard draws a striking,
if perhaps rather idealized, picture of him "in his stately town-house,
surrounded by slaves and hangers-on, in the midst of his collections of
books, travel souvenirs, and rare ornaments," along with his ledgers,
correspondence, and letters of credit, skilled in the arts of double-entry

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book-keeping along with secret codes and ciphers, giving alms to the
poor, supporting places of worship, perhaps, dedicating himself to the
writing of poetry, while still able to translate his general creditworthi-
ness into great capital reserves by appealing to family and partners.79
Lombard's picture is to some degree inspired by the famous Thousand
and One Nights description of Sindbad, who, having spent his youth
in perilous mercantile ventures to faraway lands, finally retired, rich
beyond dreams, to spend the rest of his life amidst gardens and dancing
girls, telling tall tales of his adventures. Here's a glimpse, from the eyes
of a humble porter (also named Sindbad) when first summoned to see
him by the master's page:

He found it to be a goodly mansion, radiant and full of majes-
ty, till he brought him to a grand sitting room wherein he saw
a company of nobles and great lords seated at tables garnished
with all manner of flowers and sweet-scented herbs, besides
great plenty of dainty viands and fruits dried and fresh and
confections and wines of the choicest vintages. There also were
instruments of music and mirth and lovely slave girls playing
and singing. All the company was ranged according to rank,
and in the highest place sat a man of worshipful and noble
aspect whose bearded sides hoariness had stricken, and he was
stately of stature and fair of favor, agreeable of aspect and
full of gravity and dignity and majesty. So Sindbad the Porter
was confounded at that which he beheld and said in himself,
"By Allah, this must be either some king's palace, or a piece
of Paradise!"80

It's worth quoting not only because it represents a certain ideal, a
picture of the perfect life, but because there's no real Christian parallel.
It would be impossible conceive of such an image appearing in, say, a
Medieval French romance.

The veneration of the merchant was matched by what can only be
called the world's first popular free-market ideology. True, one should
be careful not to confuse ideals with reality. Markets were ever entirely
independent from the government. Islamic regimes did employ all the
usual strategies of manipulating tax policy to encourage the growth of
markets, and they periodically tried to intervene in commercial law.8'
Still, there was a very strong popular feeling that they shouldn't. Once
freed from its ancient scourges of debt and slavery, the local bazaar had
become, for most, not a place of moral danger, but the very opposite:

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279

the highest expression of the human freedom and communal solidarity,
and thus to be protected assiduously from state intrusion.

There was a particular hostility to anything that smacked of price-
fixing. One much-repeated story held that the Prophet himself had
refused to force merchants to lower prices during a shortage in the
city of Medina, on the grounds that doing so would be sacrilegious,
since, in a free-market situation, "prices depend on the will of God."82
Most legal scholars interpreted Mohammed's decision to mean that
any government interference in market mechanisms should be con-
sidered similarly sacrilegious, since markets were designed by God to
regulate themselves.83

If all this bears a striking resemblance to Adam Smith's "invisible
hand" (which was also the hand of Divine Providence), it might not
be a complete coincidence. In fact, many of the specific arguments and
examples that Smith uses appear to trace back directly to economic
tracts written in Medieval Persia. For instance, not only does his argu-
ment that exchange is a natural outgrowth of human rationality and
speech already appear both in both Ghazali (1058-1111 ad), and Tusi
(1201-1274 ad); both use exactly the same illustration: that no one has
ever observed two dogs exchanging bones.84 Even more dramatically,
Smith's most famous example of division of labor, the pin factory,
where it takes eighteen separate operations to produce one pin, already
appears in Ghazali's Ihya, in which he describes a needle factory, where
it takes twenty-five different operations to produce a needle.85

The differences, however, are just as significant as the similarities.
One telling example: like Smith, Tusi begins his treatise on economics
with a discussion of the division of labor; but where for Smith, the
division of labor is actually an outgrowth of our "natural propensity to
truck and barter" in pursuit of individual advantage, for Tusi, it was
an extension of mutual aid:

Let us suppose that each individual were required to busy
himself with providing his own sustenance, clothing, dwelling-
place and weapons, first acquiring the tools of carpentry and
the smith's trade, then readying thereby tools and implements
for sowing and reaping, grinding and kneading, spinning and
weaving . . . Clearly, he would not be capable of doing justice
to any one of them. But when men render aid to each other,
each one performing one of these important tasks that are be-
yond the measure of his own capacity, and observing the law
of justice in transactions by giving greatly and receiving in
exchange of the labor of others, then the means of livelihood

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are realized, and the succession of the individual and the sur-
vival of the species are assured.86

As a result, he argues, divine providence has arranged us to have
different abilities, desires, and inclinations. The market is simply one
manifestation of this more general principle of mutual aid, of the
matching of, abilities (supply) and needs (demand) — or to translate it
into my own earlier terms, it is not only founded on, but is itself an
extension of the kind of baseline communism on which any society
must ultimately rest.

All this is not to say that Tusi was in any sense a radical egalitar-
ian. Quite the contrary. "If men were equal," he insists, "they would
all perish." We need differences between rich and poor, he insisted, just
as much as we need differences between farmers and carpenters. Still,
once you start from the initial premise that markets are primarily about
cooperation rather than competition — and while Muslim economic
thinkers did recognize and accept the need for market competition,
they never saw competition as its essence87 — the moral implications are
very different. Nasruddin's story about the quail eggs might have been
a joke, but Muslim ethicists did often enjoin merchants to drive a hard
bargain with the rich so they could charge less, or pay more, when
dealing with the less fortunate.88

Ghazali's take on the division of labor is similar, and his account
of the origins of money is if anything even more revealing. It begins
with what looks much like the myth of barter, except that, like all
Middle Eastern writers, he starts not with imaginary primitive tribes-
men, but with strangers meeting in an imaginary marketplace.

Sometimes a person needs what he does not own and he owns
what he does not need. For example, a person has saffron but
needs a camel for transportation and one who owns a camel
does not presently need that camel but he wants saffron. Thus,
there is the need for an exchange. However, for there to be an
exchange, there must be a way to measure the two objects, for
the camel-owner cannot give the whole camel for a quantity
of saffron. There is no similarity between saffron and camel
so that equal amount of that weight and form can be given.
Likewise is the case of one who desires a house but owns some
cloth or desires a slave but owns socks, or desires flour but
possesses a donkey. These goods have no direct proportional-
ity so one cannot know how much saffron will equal a camel's
worth. Such barter transactions would be very difficult.89

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281

Ghazali also notes that there might also be a problem of one per-
son not even needing what the other has to offer, but this is almost
an afterthought; for him, the real problem is conceptual. How do you
compare two things with no common qualities? His conclusion: it can
only be done by comparing both to a third thing with no qualities at
all. For this reason, he explains, God created dinars and dirhams, coins
made out of gold and silver, two metals that are otherwise no good
for anything:

Dirhams and dinars are not created for any particular purpose;
they are useless by themselves; they are just like stones. They
are created to circulate from hand to hand, to govern and to
facilitate transactions. They are symbols to know the value and
grades of goods.90

They can be symbols, units of measure, because of this very lack
of usefulness, indeed lack of any particular feature other than value:

A thing can only be exactly linked to other things if it has no
particular special form or feature of its own — for example, a
mirror that has no color can reflect all colors. The same is the
case with money — it has no purpose of its own, but it serves as
medium for the purpose of exchanging goods.9'

From this it also follows that lending money at interest must be
illegitimate, since it means using money as an end in itself: "Money
is not created to earn money." In fact, he says, "in relation to other
goods, dirhams and dinars are like prepositions in a sentence," words
that, as the grammarians inform us, are used to give meaning to other
words, but can only do because they have no meaning in themselves.
Money is a thus a unit of measure that provides a means of assessing
the value of goods, but also one that operates as such only if it stays in
constant motion. To enter in monetary transactions in order to obtain
even more money, even if it's a matter of M-C-M', let alone M-M',
would be, according to Ghazali, the equivalent of kidnapping a post-
man.92

Whereas Ghazali speaks only of gold and silver, what he describes —
money as symbol, as abstract measure, having no qualities of its own,
whose value is only maintained by constant motion — is something that
would never have occurred to anyone were it not in an age when it
was perfectly normal for money to be employed in purely virtual form.

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Much of our free-market doctrine, then, appears to have been originally
borrowed piecemeal from a very different social and moral universe.93
The mercantile classes of the Medieval Near West had pulled off an ex-
traordinary feat. By abandoning the usurious practices that had made
them so obnoxious to their neighbors for untold centuries before, they
were able to become — alongside religious teachers — the effective lead-
ers of their communities: communities that are still seen as organized,
to a large extent, around the twin poles of mosque and bazaar.94 The
spread of Islam allowed the market to become a global phenomenon,
operating largely independent of governments, according to its own
internal laws. But the very fact that this was, in a certain way, a genu-
ine free market, not one created by the government and backed by its
police and prisons — a world of handshake deals and paper promises
backed only by the integrity of the signer — meant that it could never
really become the world imagined by those who later adopted many of
the same ideas and arguments: one of purely self-interested individuals
vying for material advantage by any means at hand.

The Far West:

Christendom (Commerce, Lending, and War)

Where there is justice in war, there is
also justice in usury.

— Saint Ambrose

Europe, as I mentioned, came rather late to the Middle Ages and for
most of it was something of a hinterland. Still, the period began much
as it did elsewhere, with the disappearance of coinage. Money re-
treated into virtuality. Everyone continued to calculate costs in Roman
currency, then, later, in Carolingian "imaginary money" — the purely
conceptual system of pounds, shillings, and pence used across Western
Europe to keep accounts well into the seventeenth century.

Local mints did gradually come back into operation, producing
coins in an endless variety of weight, purity, and denominations. How
these related to the pan-European system, though, was a matter of
manipulation. Kings regularly issued decrees revaluing their own coins
in relation to the money of account, "crying up" the currency by, say,
declaring that henceforth, one of their ecus or escudos would no longer
be worth V12 but now '/s of a shilling (thus effectively raising taxes)
or "crying down" the value of their coins by doing the reverse (thus

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283

effectively reducing their debts).95 The real gold or silver content of
coins was endlessly readjusted, and currencies were frequently called in
for re-minting. Meanwhile, most everyday transactions dispensed with
cash entirely, operating through tallies, tokens, ledgers, or transactions
in kind. As a result, when the Scholastics came to address such matters
in the thirteenth century, they quickly adopted Aristotle's position that
money was a mere social convention: that it was, basically, whatever
human beings decided that it was.96

All this fit the broader Medieval pattern: actual gold and silver,
such of it as was still around, was increasingly laid up in sacred places;
as centralized states disappeared, the regulation of markets was in-
creasingly in the hands of the Church.

At first, the Catholic attitudes toward usury were just as harsh as
Muslim ones, and attitudes toward merchants, considerably harsher. In
the first case, they had little choice, as many Biblical texts were quite
explicit. Consider Exodus 22:25:

If you lend money to My people, to the poor among you, you
are not to act as a creditor to him; you shall not charge him
interest.

Both the Psalms (15:5, 54:12) and Prophets (Jeremiah 9.6, Nehemiah
5:11) were explicit in assigning usurers to death and hellfire. What's more,
the early Christian Fathers, who laid the foundation of Church teachings
on social issues in the waning years of the Roman empire, were writing
amidst the ancient world's last great debt crisis, one that was effec-
tively in the process of destroying the empire's remaining free peasant-
ry.97 While few were willing to condemn slavery, all condemned usury.

Usury was seen above all as an assault on Christian charity, on
Jesus's injunction to treat the poor as they would treat the Christ him-
self, giving without expectation of return and allowing the borrower
to decide on recompense (Luke 6:34-35). 'n 3^5 ad> for instance, St.
Basil delivered a sermon on usury in Cappadocia that set the standard
for such issues:

The Lord gave His own injunction quite plainly in the words,
"from him that would borrow of thee turn not thou away."98
But what of the money lover? He sees before him a man
under stress of necessity bent to the ground in supplication.
He sees him hesitating at no act, no words, of humiliation. He
sees him suffering undeserved misfortune, but he is merciless.
He does not reckon that he is a fellow-creature. He does not

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give in to his entreaties. He stands stiff and sour. He is moved
by no prayers; his resolution is broken by no tears. He persists
in refusal . .

That is, until the suppliant mentions "interest."

Basil was particularly offended by the crass dishonesty by which
moneylenders operated; their abuse of Christian fellowship. The man
in need comes seeking a friend, the rich man pretends to be one. In fact
he's a secret enemy, and everything he says is a lie. Witness, St. Basil
said, how the rich man will always at first swear mighty oaths that he
has no money to his name:

Then the suppliant mentions interest, and utters the word secu-
rity. All is changed. The frown is relaxed; with a genial smile
he recalls old family connection. Now it is "my friend."

"I will see," says he, "if I have any money by me. Yes,
there is that sum which a man I know has left in my hands on
deposit for profit. He stipulated a very heavy rate of interest.
However, I shall certainly take something off, and give it to
you on better terms." With pretences of this kind and talk like
this he fawns on the wretched victim, and induces him to swal-
low the bait. Then he binds him with a written security, adds
loss of liberty to the trouble of his pressing poverty, and is off.
The man who has made himself responsible for interest that he
cannot pay has accepted voluntary slavery for life.100

The borrower, coming home with his newfound money, at first
rejoices. But quickly, "the money slips away," interest accumulates,
and his possessions are sold off. Basil grows poetic in describing the
debtor's plight. It's as if time itself has become his enemy. Every day
and night conspires against him, as they are the parents of interest. His
life becomes a "sleepless daze of anxious uncertainty," as he is humili-
ated in public; while at home, he is constantly hiding under the couch
at every unexpected knock on the door, and can barely sleep, startled
awake by nightmare visions of his creditor standing over his pillow.101

Probably the most famous ancient homily on usury, though, was
Saint Ambrose's De Tobia, pronounced over several days in Milan in
380 BC. He reproduces the same vivid details as Basil: fathers forced
to sell their children, debtors who hanged themselves out of shame.
Usury, he observes, must be considered a form of violent robbery, even
murder.102 Ambrose, though, added one small proviso that was later to
have enormous influence. His sermon was the first to carefully examine

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every Biblical reference to moneylending, which meant that he had to
address the one problem later authors always had to struggle with — the
fact that, in the Old Testament, usury is not quite forbidden to every-
one. The key sticking point is always Deuteronomy 23:19-20:

Thou shalt not lend upon usury to thy brother; usury of mon-
ey, usury of victuals, usury of any thing that is lent upon usury.

Unto a stranger thou mayest lend upon usury; but unto thy
brother thou shalt not lend upon usury.

So who then is this "stranger" or (a better translation of the He-
brew nokri, "foreigner")? Presumably, one against whom robbery and
murder would have been justified as well. After all, the ancient Jews
lived amidst tribes like the Amalekites, on whom God had specifically
instructed them to make war. If by extracting interest one is, as he puts
it, fighting without a sword, then it is only legitimate to do so from
those "whom it would not be a crime to kill."103 For Ambrose, living in
Milan, all this was something of a technicality. He included all Chris-
tians and all those subject to Roman law as "brothers"; there weren't,
then, lot of Amalekites around.104 Later, the "Exception of St. Am-
brose," as it came to be known, was to become extremely important.

All of these sermons — and there were many of them — left certain
critical questions unanswered. What should the rich man do when
receiving a visit from his troubled neighbor? True, Jesus had said to
give without expectation of return, but it seemed unrealistic to expect
most Christians to do that. And even if they did, what sort of ongoing
relationships would that create? St. Basil took the radical position. God
had given us all things in common, and he had specifically instructed
the rich to give their possessions to the poor. The communism of
the Apostles — who pooled all their wealth, and took freely what they
needed — was thus the only proper model for a truly Christian soci-
ety.105 Few of the other Christian Fathers were willing to take things
this far. Communism was the ideal, but in this fallen and temporary
world, they argued, it was simply unrealistic. The Church must accept
existing property arrangements, but also come up with spiritual argu-
ments to encourage the rich to nonetheless act with Christian charity.
Many of these employed distinctly commercial metaphors. Even Basil
was willing to indulge in this sort of thing:

Whenever you provide for the destitute on account of the Lord,
it is both a gift and a loan. It is a gift because you entertain no

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hope in recovering it, a loan because of our Lord's munificence
in paying you back on his behalf, when, having taken a small
sum for the poor, he will give you back a vast sum in return.
"For he who takes pity on the poor, lends to God."106

Since Christ is in the poor, a gift of charity is a loan to Jesus, to be
repaid with interest inconceivable on earth.

Charity, however, is a way of maintaining hierarchy, not under-
mining it. What Basil is talking about here really has nothing to do
with debt, and playing with such metaphors seems ultimately to serve
only to underline the fact that the rich man doesn't owe the poor sup-
pliant anything, any more than God is in any way legally bound to
save the soul of anyone who feeds a beggar. "Debt" here dissolves into
a pure hierarchy (hence, "the Lord") where utterly different beings
provide each other utterly different kinds of benefit. Later theologians
were to explicitly confirm this: human beings live in time, noted St.
Thomas Aquinas, so it makes sense to say that sin is a debt of punish-
ment we owe to God. But God lives outside of time. By definition, he
cannot owe anything to anyone. His grace can therefore only be a gift
given with no obligation.107

This, in turn, provides an answer to the question: What are they
really asking the rich man to do? The Church opposed usury, but it had
little to say about relations of feudal dependency, where the rich man
provides charity and the poor suppliant shows his gratitude in other
ways. Neither, when these kinds of arrangements began to emerge
across the Christian West, did the Church offer significant objections.108
Former debt peons were gradually transformed into serfs or vassals.
In some ways, the relationship was not much different, since vassalage
was, in theory, a voluntary, contractual relationship. Just as a Chris-
tian has to be able to freely choose to submit himself to "the Lord," so
did a vassal have to agree to make himself someone else's man. All this
proved perfectly consonant with Christianity.

Commerce, on the other hand, remained a problem. There was
not much of a leap between condemning usury as the taking of "what-
ever exceeds the amount loaned" and condemning any form of profit-
taking. Many — Saint Ambrose among them — were willing to take that
leap. Where Mohammed declared that an honest merchant deserved
a place by the seat of God in heaven, men like Ambrose wondered if
an "honest merchant" could actually exist. Many held that one simply
could not be both a merchant and a Christian.109 In the early Middle
Ages, this was not a pressing issue — especially since so much commerce
was conducted by foreigners. The conceptual problems, however, were

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never resolved. What did it mean that one could only lend to "strang-
ers"? Was it just usury, or was even commerce tantamount to war?

Probably the most notorious, and often catastrophic, way that this
problem worked itself out in the High Middle Ages was in relations
between Christians and Jews. In the years since Nehemiah, Jewish
attitudes toward lending had themselves changed. In the time of Au-
gustus, Rabbi Hillel had effectively rendered the sabbatical year a dead
letter, by allowing two parties to place a rider on any particular loan
contract agreeing that it would not apply. While both the Torah and
the Talmud stand opposed to loans on interest, exceptions were made
in dealing with Gentiles — particularly as, over the course of the elev-
enth and twelfth centuries, European Jews were excluded from almost
any other line of work."0 This in turn made it harder to contain the
practice, as witnessed in the common joke, current in twelfth-century
ghettos to justify usury between Jews. It consisted, it is said, of reciting
Deuteronomy 23:20 in interrogative tones to make it mean the opposite
of its obvious sense: 'Unto a foreigner thou mayest lend upon usury,
but unto thy brother thou shalt not lend upon usury?"11

On the Christian side, in 1140 ad the "Exception of Saint Ambrose"
found its way into Gratian's Decretum, which came to be considered
the definitive collection of canon law. At the time, economic life fell
very much under the jurisdiction of the Church. While that might ap-
pear to leave Jews safely outside the system, in reality, matters were
more complicated. For one thing, while both Jews and Gentiles would
occasionally attempt to make recourse to the Exception, the prevail-
ing opinion was that it only really applied to Saracens or others with
whom Christendom was literally at war. After all, Jews and Christians
lived in the same towns and villages. If one were to concede that the
Exception allowed Jews and Christians the right to lend to each other
at interest, it would also mean that they had the right to murder one
another."2 No one really wanted to say that. On the other hand, real
relations between Christians and Jews often did seem to skate perilous-
ly close to this unfortunate ideal — though obviously the actual murder
(apart from mere economic aggression) was all on one side.

In part this was due to the habit of Christian princes of exploit-
ing, for their own purposes, the fact that Jews did sit slightly outside
the system. Many encouraged Jews to operate as moneylenders, under
their protection, simply because they also knew that protection could
be withdrawn at any time. The kings of England were notorious in

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this regard. They insisted that Jews be excluded from merchant and
craft guilds, but granted them the right to charge extravagant rates of
interest, backing up the loans by the full force of law.113 Debtors in
Medieval England were regularly thrown in prisons until their families
settled with the creditor.114 Yet the same regularly happened to the
Jews themselves. In 1210 ad, for example, King John ordered a tallage,
or emergency levy, to pay for his wars in France and Ireland. Accord-
ing to one contemporary chronicler "all the Jews throughout England,
of both sexes, were seized, imprisoned, and tortured severely, in order
to do the king's will with their money." Most who where put to torture
offered all they had and more — but on that occasion, one particularly
wealthy merchant, a certain Abraham of Bristol, who the king decided
owed him ten thousand marks of silver (a sum equivalent to about a
sixth of John's total annual revenue), became famous for holding out.
The king therefore ordered that one of his molars be pulled out daily,
until he paid. After seven had been extracted, Abraham finally gave
in.m

John's successor, Henry III (1216-1272 ad), was in the habit of turn-
ing over Jewish victims to his brother the Earl of Cornwall, so that,
as another chronicler put it, "those whom one brother had flayed, the
other might embowel."116 Such stories about the extraction of Jewish
teeth, skin, and intestines are, I think, important to bear in mind when
thinking about Shakespeare's imaginary Merchant of Venice demand-
ing his "pound of flesh."117 It all seems to have been a bit of a guilty
projection of terrors that Jews had never really visited on Christians,
but that had been directed the other way around.

The terror inflicted by kings carried in it a peculiar element of
identification: the persecutions and appropriations were an extension
of the logic whereby kings effectively treated debts owed to Jews as ul-
timately owed to themselves, even setting up a branch of the Treasury
("the Exchequer of the Jews") to manage them.118 This was of course
much in keeping with the popular English impression of their kings
as themselves a group of rapacious Norman foreigners. But it also
gave the kings the opportunity to periodically play the populist card,
dramatically snubbing or humiliating their Jewish financiers, turning
a blind eye or even encouraging pogroms by townsfolk who chose to
take the Exception of Saint Ambrose literally, and treat moneylenders
as enemies of Christ who could be murdered in cold blood. Particularly
gruesome massacres occurred in Norwich in 1144 ad, and in France,
in Blois in 1171. Before long, as Norman Cohn put it, "what had once
been a flourishing Jewish culture had turned into a terrorized society
locked in perpetual warfare with the greater society around it."119

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One mustn't exaggerate the Jewish role in lending. Most Jews had
nothing to do with the business, and those who did were typically bit
players, making minor loans of grain or cloth for a return in kind.
Others weren't even really Jews. Already in the 1190s, preachers were
complaining about lords who would work hand in glove with Christian
moneylenders claiming they were "our Jews" — and thus under their
special protection.120 By the 1100s, most Jewish moneylenders had long
since been displaced by Lombards (from Northern Italy) and Cahorsins
(from the French town of Cahors) — who established themselves across
Western Europe, and became notorious rural usurers.121

The rise of rural usury was itself a sign of a growing free peasantry
(there had been no point in making loans to serfs, since they had noth-
ing to repossess). It accompanied the rise of commercial farming, urban
craft guilds, and the "commercial revolution" of the High Middle Ages,
all of which finally brought Western Europe to a level of economic
activity comparable to that long since considered normal in other parts
of the world. The Church quickly came under considerable popular
pressure to do something about the problem, and at first, it did try to
tighten the clamps. Existing loopholes in the usury laws were system-
atically closed, particularly the use of mortgages. These latter began as
an expedient: as in Medieval Islam, those determined to dodge the law
could simply present the money, claim to be buying the debtor's house
or field, and then "rent" it back to the debtor until the principal was
repaid. In the case of a mortgage, the house was in theory not even
purchased but pledged as security, but any income from it accrued to
the lender. In the eleventh century this became a favorite trick of mon-
asteries. In 1148 it was made illegal: henceforth, all income was to be
subtracted from the principal. Similarly, in 1187 merchants were forbid-
den to charge higher prices when selling on credit — the Church thereby
going much further than any school of Islamic law ever had. In 1179
usury was made a mortal sin and usurers were excommunicated and
denied Christian burial.122 Before long, new orders of itinerant friars
like the Franciscans and Dominicans organized preaching campaigns,
traveling town to town, village to village, threatening moneylenders
with the loss of their eternal souls if they did not make restitution to
their victims.

All this was echoed by a heady intellectual debate in the newly
founded universities, not so much as to whether usury was sinful and
illegal, but precisely why. Some argued that it was theft of another's
material possessions; others that it constituted a theft of time, charg-
ing others for something that belonged only to God. Some held that it
embodied the sin of Sloth, since like the Confucians, Catholic thinkers

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usually held that a merchant's profit could only be justified as payment
for his labor (i.e., in transporting goods to wherever they were needed),
whereas interest accrued even if the lender did nothing at all. Soon the
rediscovery of Aristotle, who returned in Arabic translation (and the
influence of Muslim sources like Ghazali and Ibn Sina), added new ar-
guments: that treating money as an end in itself defied its true purpose;
that charging interest was unnatural, in that it treated mere metal as if
it were a living thing that could breed or bear fruit.123

But as the Church authorities soon discovered, when one starts
something like this, it's very hard to keep a lid on it. Soon, new popu-
lar religious movements were appearing everywhere, and many took up
the same direction so many had in late Antiquity, not only challeng-
ing commerce but questioning the very legitimacy of private property.
Most were labeled heresies and violently suppressed, but many of the
same arguments were taken up amongst the mendicant orders them-
selves. By the thirteenth century, the great intellectual debate was be-
tween the Franciscans and the Dominicans over "apostolic poverty" —
basically, over whether Christianity could be reconciled with property
of any sort.

At the same time, the revival of Roman law — which, as we've seen,
began from the assumption of absolute private property — put new in-
tellectual weapons in the hands of those who wished to argue that, at
least in the case of commercial loans, usury laws should be relaxed.
The great discovery in this case was the notion of interesse, which is
where our word "interest" originally comes from: a compensation for
loss suffered because of late payment.124 The argument soon became
that if a merchant made a commercial loan even for some minimal pe-
riod (say, a month), it was not usurious for him to charge a percentage
for each month afterward, since this was a penalty, not rental for the
money, and it was justified as compensation for the profit he would
have made, had he placed it in some profitable investment, as any mer-
chant would ordinarily be expected to do.125

The reader may be wondering how it could have been possible for
usury laws to move in two opposite directions simultaneously. The
answer would seem to be that politically, the situation in Western
Europe was remarkably chaotic. Most kings were weak, their holdings
fractured and uncertain; the Continent was a checkerboard of baronies,
principalities, urban communes, manors, and church estates. Jurisdic-
tions were constantly being renegotiated — usually by war. Merchant

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capitalism of the sort long familiar in the Muslim Near West only real-
ly managed to establish itself — quite late, compared with the situation
in the rest of the Medieval world — when merchant capitalists managed
to secure a political foothold in the independent city-states of northern
Italy — most famously, Venice, Florence, Genoa, and Milan — followed
by the German cities of the Hanseatic League.126 Italian bankers ulti-
mately managed to free themselves from the threat of expropriation by
themselves taking over governments, and by doing so, acquiring their
own court systems (capable of enforcing contracts) and even more criti-
cally, their own armies.127

What jumps out, in comparison with the Muslim world, are these
links of finance, trade, and violence. Whereas Persian and Arab think-
ers assumed that the market emerged as an extension of mutual aid,
Christians never completely overcame the suspicion that commerce was
really an extension of usury, a form of fraud only truly legitimate when
directed against one's mortal enemies. Debt was, indeed, sin — on the
part of both parties to the transaction. Competition was essential to the
nature of the market, but competition was (usually) nonviolent war-
fare. There was a reason why, as I've already observed, the words for
"truck and barter" in almost all European languages were derived from
terms meaning "swindle," "bamboozle," or "deceive." Some disdained
commerce for that reason. Others embraced it. Few would have denied
that the connection was there.

One need only examine the way that Islamic credit instruments —
or for that matter, the Islamic ideal of the merchant adventurer — were
eventually adopted to see just how intimate this connection really was.

It is often held that the first pioneers of modern banking were the
Military Order of the Knights of the Temple of Solomon, commonly
known as the Knights Templar. A fighting order of monks, they played
a key role in financing the Crusades. Through the Templars, a lord in
southern France might take out a mortgage on one of his tenements
and receive a "draft" (a bill of exchange, modeled on the Muslim suf-
taja, but written in a secret code) redeemable for cash from the Temple
in Jerusalem. In other words, Christians appear to have first adopted
Islamic financial techniques to finance attacks against Islam.

The Templars lasted from 1118 to 1307, but they finally went the
way of so many Medieval trading minorities: King Phillip IV, deep
in debt to the order, turned on them, accusing them of unspeakable
crimes; their leaders were tortured and ultimately killed, and their
wealth was expropriated.128 Much of the problem was that they lacked
a powerful home base. Italian banking houses such as the Bardi, Pe-
ruzzi, and Medici did much better. In banking history, the Italians are

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most famous for their complex joint-stock organization and for spear-
heading the use of Islamic-style bills of exchange.129 At first these were
simple enough: basically just a form of long-distance money-changing.
A merchant could present a certain amount in florins to a banker in
Italy and receive a notarized bill registering the equivalent in the in-
ternational money of account (Carolingian derniers), due in, say, three
months' time, and then after it came due, either he or his agent could
cash it for an equivalent amount of local currency in the Champagne
fairs, which were both the great yearly commercial emporia, and great
financial clearing houses, of the European High Middle Ages. But they
quickly morphed into a plethora of new, creative forms, mainly a way
of navigating — or even profiting from — the endlessly complicated Eu-
ropean currency situation.130

Most of the capital for these banking enterprises derived from the
Mediterranean trade in Indian Ocean spices and Eastern luxuries. Yet
unlike the Indian Ocean, the Mediterranean was a constant war zone.
Venetian galleys doubled as both merchant vessels and warships, re-
plete with cannon and marines, and the differences between trade, cru-
sade, and piracy often depended on the balance of forces at any given
moment.13' The same was true on land: where Asian empires tended
to separate the sphere of warriors and merchants, in Europe they often
overlapped:

All up and down Central Europe, from Tuscany to Flan-
ders, from Brabant to Livonia, merchants not only supplied
warriors — as they did all over Europe — they sat in govern-
ments that made war and, sometimes, buckled on armor and
went into battle themselves. Such places make a long list: not
only Florence, Milan, Venice, and Genoa, but also Augsburg,
Nuremberg, Strasbourg, and Zurich; not only Liibeck, Ham-
burg, Bremen, and Danzig, but also Bruges, Ghent, Leiden, and
Cologne. Some of them — Florence, Nuremberg, Siena, Bern,
and Ulm come to mind — built considerable territorial states.132

The Venetians were only the most famous in this regard. They
created a veritable mercantile empire over the course of the eleventh
century, seizing islands like Crete and Cyprus and establishing sugar
plantations that eventually — anticipating a pattern eventually to be-
come all too familiar in the New World — came to be staffed largely
by African slaves.133 Genoa soon followed suit; one of their most lucra-
tive businesses was raiding and trading along the Black Sea to acquire
slaves to sell to the Mamluks in Egypt or to work mines leased from

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the Turks.134 The Genoese republic was also the inventor of a unique
mode of military financing, which might be known as war by subscrip-
tion, whereby those planning expeditions sold shares to investors in
exchange for the rights to an equivalent percentage of the spoils. It
was precisely the same galleys, with the same "merchant adventurers"
aboard, who would eventually pass through the pillars of Hercules to
follow the Atlantic coast to Flanders or the Champagne fairs, carrying
cargoes of nutmeg or cayenne, silks and woolen goods — along with the
inevitable bills of exchange.135

It would be instructive, I think, to pause a moment to think about
this term, "merchant adventurer." Originally it just meant a merchant
who operated outside his own country. It was around this same time,
however, at the height of the fairs of Champagne and the Italian mer-
chant empires, between 1160 and 1172., that the term "adventure" be-
gan to take on its contemporary meaning. The man most responsible
for it was the French poet Chretien de Troyes, author of the famous
Arthurian romances — most famous, perhaps, for being the first to tell
the story of Sir Percival and the Holy Grail. The romances were a new
sort of literature featuring a new sort of hero, the "knight-errant," a
warrior who roamed the world in search of, precisely, "adventure" — in
the contemporary sense of the word: perilous challenges, love, trea-
sure, and renown. Stories of knightly adventure quickly became enor-
mously popular, Chretein was followed by innumerable imitators, and
the central characters in the stories — Arthur and Guinevere, Lance-
lot, Gawain, Percival, and the rest — became known to everyone, as
they are still. This courtly ideal of the gallant knight, the quest, the
joust, romance and adventure, remains central to our image of the
Middle Ages.136

The curious thing is that it bears almost no relation to reality.
Nothing remotely like a real "knight-errant" ever existed. "Knights"
had originally been a term for freelance warriors, drawn from the
younger or, often, bastard sons of the minor nobility. Unable to in-
herit, many were forced to band together to seek their fortunes. Many
became little more than roving bands of thugs, in an endless pursuit
of plunder — precisely the sort of people who made merchants' lives so
dangerous. Culminating in the twelfth century, there was a concerted
effort to bring this dangerous population under the control of the civil
authorities: not only the code of chivalry, but the tournament, the
joust — all these were more than anything else ways of keeping them

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out of trouble, as it were, in part by setting knights against each other,
in part by turning their entire existence into a kind of stylized ritual.137
The ideal of the lone wandering knight, in search of some gallant ad-
venture, on the other hand, seems to have come out of nowhere.

This is important, since it lies at the very heart of our image of the
Middle Ages — and the explanation, I think, is revealing. We have to
recall that merchants had begun to achieve unprecedented social and
even political power around this time, but that, in dramatic contrast to
Islam, where a figure like Sindbad — the successful merchant adventurer —
could serve as a fictional exemplar of the perfect life, merchants, unlike
warriors, were never seen as paragons of much of anything.

It's likely no coincidence that Chretien was living in Troyes, at the
very heartland of the Champagne fairs that had become, in turn, the
commercial hub of Western Europe.138 While he appears to have mod-
eled his vision of Camelot on the elaborate court life under his patron
Henri the Liberal (1152-1181), Count of Champagne, and his wife Ma-
rie, daughter of Eleanor of Aquitaine, the real court was staffed by low-
born commergants, who served as Serjeants of the fairs — leaving most
real knights in the role of onlookers, guards, or — at tournaments —
entertainers.

This is not to say that tournaments did not become a kind of
economic focus in their own right, according to one early twentieth-
century Medievalist, Amy Kelly:

The biographer of Guillaume le Marechal gives an idea of how
this rabble of courtly routiers amused itself on the jousting
fields of western Europe. To the tournaments, occurring in a
brisk season about twice a month from Pentecost to the feast of
St John, flocked the young bloods, sometimes three thousand
strong, taking possession of the nearest town. Thither also
flocked horse dealers from Lombardy and Spain, from Brittany
and the Low Countries, as well as armorers, haberdashers for
man and beast, usurers, mimes and story-tellers, acrobats, nec-
romancers, and other gentlemen of the lists, the field, the road.
Entertainers of every stripe found liberal patronage . . . There
were feasts in upper chambers, and forges rang in the smithies
all night long. Brawls with grisly incidents — a cracked skull, a
gouged eye — occurred as the betting progressed and the dice
flew. To cry up their champions in the field came ladies of fair
name and others of no name at all.

The hazards, the concourse, the prizes, keyed men to the
pitch of war. The stakes were magnificent, for the victor held

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his prize, horse and man, for ransom. And for these ransoms
fiefs went in gage or the hapless victim fell into the hands of
usurers, giving his men, and in extremity, himself, as hostages.
Fortunes were made and lost on the point of a lance and many
a mother's son failed to ride home.139

So, it was not only that the merchants supplied the materials that
made the fairs possible; Since vanquished knights technically owed
their lives to the victors, merchants ended up, in their capacity as
moneylenders, making good business out of liquidating their assets.
Alternately, a knight might borrow vast sums to outfit himself in mag-
nificence, hoping to impress some fair lady (with handsome dowry)
with his victories; others, to take part in the continual whoring and
gambling that always surrounded such events. Losers would end up
having to sell their armor and horses, and this created the danger that
they would go back to being highwaymen, foment pogroms (if their
creditors were Jews) or, if they had lands, make new fiscal demands on
those unfortunate enough to live on them.

Others turned to war, which itself tended to drive the creation of
new markets.140 In one of the most dramatic of such incidents, in No-
vember 1199, a large number of knights at a tournament at the castle of
Eery in Champagne, sponsored by Henry's son, Theobald, were seized
by a great religious passion, abandoned their games, and swore a vow
to instead retake the Holy Land. The crusader army then proceeded to
commission the Venetian fleet for transport in exchange for a promise
of a 50-percent share in all resulting profits. In the end, rather than
proceeding to the Holy Land, they ended up sacking the (much wealth-
ier, Orthodox) Christian city of Constantinople after a prolonged and
bloody siege. A Flemish count named Baldwin was installed as "Latin
Emperor of Constantinople," but attempting to govern a city that had
been largely destroyed and stripped of everything of value ensured that
he and his barons soon ended up in great financial difficulties. In a
gigantic version of what was happening on the small scale in so many
tournaments, they were ultimately reduced to stripping the metal off
the church roofs and auctioning holy relics to pay back their Venetian
creditors. By 1259, Baldwin had sunk to the point of taking out a mort-
gage on his own son, who was taken back to Venice as security for
a loan.141

All this does not really answer the question: Whence, then, this
image of the solitary knight-errant, wandering the forests of a mythic
Albion, challenging rivals, confronting ogres, fairies, wizards, and mys-
terious beasts? The answer should be clear by now. Really, this is just a

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sublimated, romanticized image of the traveling merchants themselves:
men who did, after all, set off on lonely ventures through wilds and
forests, whose outcome was anything but certain.142

And what of the Grail, that mysterious object that all the knights-
errant were ultimately seeking? Oddly enough, Richard Wagner, com-
poser of the opera Parzifal, first suggested that the Grail was a sym-
bol inspired by the new forms of finance.143 Where earlier epic heroes
sought after, and fought over, piles of real, concrete gold and silver —
the Nibelung's hoard — these new ones, born of the new commercial
economy, pursued purely abstract forms of value. No one, after all,
knew precisely what the Grail was. Even the epics disagree: sometimes
it's a plate, sometimes a cup, sometimes a stone. (Wolfram von Eschen-
bach imagined it to be a jewel knocked from Lucifer's helmet in a bat-
tle at the dawn of time.) In a way it doesn't matter. The point is that
it's invisible, intangible, but at the same time of infinite, inexhaustible
value, containing everything, capable of making the wasteland flower,
feeding the world, providing spiritual sustenance, and healing wounded
bodies. Marc Shell even suggested that it would best be conceived as a
blank check, the ultimate financial abstraction.144

What, Then, Were the Middle Ages?

Each of us is a mere symbolon of a
man, the result of bisection, like the
flat fish, two out of one, and each of
us is constantly searching for his corre-
sponding symbolon.

— Plato, The Symposium

There is one way that Wagner got it wrong: the introduction of finan-
cial abstraction was not a sign that Europe was leaving the Middle
Ages, but that it was finally, belatedly, entering it.

Wagner's not really to blame here. Almost everyone gets this
wrong, because the most characteristic Medieval institutions and ideas
arrived so late in Europe that we tend to mistake them for the first
stirrings of modernity. We've already seen this with bills of exchange,
already in use in the East by 700 or 800 ad, but only reaching Europe
several centuries later. The independent university — perhaps the quint-
essential Medieval institution — is another case in point. Nalanda was
founded in 42.7 ad, and there were independent institutions of higher

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297

learning all over China and the Near West (from Cairo to Constanti-
nople) centuries before the creation of similar institutions in Oxford,
Paris, and Bologna.

If the Axial Age was the age of materialism, the Middle Ages were
above all else the age of transcendence. The collapse of the ancient em-
pires did not, for the most part, lead to the rise of new ones.145 Instead,
once-subversive popular religious movements were catapulted into the
status of dominant institutions. Slavery declined or disappeared, as did
the overall level of violence. As trade picked up, so did the pace of
technological innovation; greater peace brought greater possibilities not
only for the movement of silks and spices, but also of people and ideas.
The fact that monks in Medieval China could devote themselves to
translating ancient treatises in Sanskrit, and that students in madrasas
in Medieval Indonesia could debate legal terms in Arabic, is testimony
to the profound cosmopolitanism of the age.

Our image of the Middle Ages as an "age of faith" — and hence, of
blind obedience to authority — is a legacy of the French Enlightenment.
Again, it makes sense only if you think of the "Middle Ages" as some-
thing that happened primarily in Europe. Not only was the Far West an
unusually violent place by world standards, the Catholic Church was
extraordinarily intolerant. It's hard to find many Medieval Chinese,
Indian, or Islamic parallels, for example, to the burning of "witches" or
the massacre of heretics. More typical was the pattern that prevailed in
certain periods of Chinese history, when it was perfectly acceptable for
a scholar to dabble in Taoism in his youth, become a Confucian in mid-
dle age, then become a Buddhist on retirement. If there is an essence to
Medieval thought, it lies not in blind obedience to authority, but rather
in a dogged insistence that the values that govern our ordinary daily
affairs — particularly those of the court and marketplace — are confused,
mistaken, illusory, or perverse. True value lay elsewhere, in a domain
that cannot be directly perceived, but only approached through study
or contemplation. But this in turn made the faculties of contemplation,
and the entire question of knowledge, an endless problem. Consider
for example the great conundrum, pondered by Muslim, Christian, and
Jewish philosophers alike: What does it mean to simultaneously say
that we can only know God through our faculties of Reason, but that
Reason itself partakes of God? Chinese philosophers were struggling
with similar conundrums when they asked, "Do we read the classics or
do the classics read us?" Almost all the great intellectual debates of the
age turned on this question in one way or another. Is the world created
by our minds, or our minds by the world?

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We can see the same tensions within predominant theories of mon-
ey. Aristotle had argued that gold and silver had no intrinsic value in
themselves, and that money therefore was just a social convention,
invented by human communities to facilitate exchange. Since it had
"come about by agreement, therefore it is within our power to change
it or render it useless" if we all decide that that's what we want to
do.146 This position gained little traction in the materialist intellectual
environment of the Axial Age, but by the later Middle Ages, it had
become standard wisdom. Ghazali was among the first to embrace it.
In his own way he took it even further, insisting that the fact that a
gold coin has no intrinsic value is the basis of its value as money, since
this very lack of intrinsic value is what allows it to "govern," measure,
and regulate the value of other things. But at the same time, Ghazali
denied that money was a social convention. It was given us by God.147

Ghazali was a mystic, and a political conservative, so one might
argue that he ultimately shied away from the most radical implications
of his own ideas. But one could also ask whether, in the Middle Ages,
arguing that money was an arbitrary social convention was really all
that radical a position. After all, when Christian and Chinese think-
ers insisted that it was, it was almost always as a way of saying that
money is whatever the king or the emperor wished it to be. In that
sense, Ghazali's position was perfectly consonant with the Islamic de-
sire to protect the market from political interference by saying that it
fell properly under the aegis of religious authorities.

I I I I I

The fact that Medieval money took such abstract, virtual forms —
checks, tallies, paper money — meant that questions like these ("What
does it mean to say that money is a symbol?") cut to the core of the
philosophical issues of the day. Nowhere is this so true as in the his-
tory of the word "symbol" itself. Here we encounter some parallels so
extraordinary that they can only be described as startling.

When Aristotle argued that coins are merely social conventions,
the term he used was symbolon — from which our own word "symbol"
is derived. Symbolon was originally the Greek word for "tally" — an
object broken in half to mark a contract or agreement, or marked and
broken to record a debt. So our word "symbol" traces back originally
to objects broken to record debt contracts of one sort or another.
This is striking enough. What's really, remarkable, though, is that the
contemporary Chinese word for "symbol," fu, or fu bao, has almost
exactly the same origin.148

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299

Let's start with the Greek term "symbolon." Two friends at dinner
might create a symbolon if they took some object — a ring, a knuckle-
bone, a piece of crockery — and broke it in half. Any time in the future
when either of them had need of the other's help, they could bring
their halves as reminders of the friendship. Archeologists have found
hundreds of little broken friendship tablets of this sort in Athens, often
made of clay. Later they became ways of sealing a contract, the ob-
ject standing in the place of witnesses.149 The word was also used for
tokens of every sort: those given to Athenian jurors entitling them to
vote, or tickets for admission to the theater. It could be used refer to
money too, but only if that money had no intrinsic value: bronze coins
whose value was fixed only by local convention. 150 Used for written
documents, a symbolon could also be passport, contract, commission,
or receipt. By extension, it came to mean: omen, portent, symptom, or
finally, in the now-familiar sense, symbol.

The path to the latter appears to have been twofold. Aristotle fixed
on the fact that a tally could be anything: what the object was didn't
matter; all that mattered was that there was a way to break it in half.
It is exactly so with language: words are sounds we use to refer to ob-
jects, or to ideas, but the relation is arbitrary: there's no particular rea-
son, for example, that English-speakers should choose "dog" to refer
to an animal and "god" to refer to a deity, rather than the other way
around. The only reason is social convention: an agreement between all
speakers of a language that this sound shall refer to that thing. In this
sense, all words were arbitrary tokens of agreement.151 So, of course, is
money — for Aristotle, not only worthless bronze coins that we agree to
treat as if they were worth a certain amount, but all money, even gold,
is just a symbolon, a social convention."2

All this came to seem almost commonsensical in the thirteenth
century of Thomas Aquinas, when rulers could change the value of
currency simply by issuing a decree. Still, Medieval theories of symbols
derived less from Aristotle than from the Mystery Religions of Antiq-
uity, where "symbolon" came to refer to certain cryptic formulae or
talismans that only initiates could understand.153 It thus came to mean
a concrete token, perceptible to the senses, that could only be under-
stood in reference to some hidden reality entirely beyond the domain
of sensory experience.154

The theorist of the symbol whose work was most widely read
and respected in the Middle Ages was a sixth-century Greek Christian
mystic whose real name has been lost to history, but who is known
by his pseudonym Dionysius the Areopagite.155 Dionysius took up the
notion in this latter sense to confront what was to become the great

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intellectual problem of the age: How is it possible for humans to have
knowledge of God? How can we, whose knowledge is confined to what
our senses can perceive of the material universe, have knowledge of a
being whose nature is absolutely alien to that material universe — "that
infinity beyond being," as he puts it, "that oneness that is beyond intel-
ligence"?'56 It would be impossible were it not for the fact that God,
being all-powerful, can do anything, and therefore, just as he places
his own body in the Eucharist, so can he reveal himself to our minds
through an endless variety of material shapes. Intriguingly, Dionysius
warns us that we cannot begin to understand how symbols work until
we rid ourselves of the notion that divine things are likely to be beauti-
ful. Images of luminous angels and celestial chariots are only likely to
confuse us, since we will be tempted to imagine that that's what heaven
is actually like, and in fact we cannot possibly conceive of what heaven
is like. Instead, effective symbols are, like the original symbolon, home-
ly objects selected apparently at random; often, ugly, ridiculous things,
whose very incongruity reminds us that they are not God; of the fact
that God "transcends all materiality," even as, in another sense, they
are God.'57 But the notion that they are in any sense tokens of agree-
ment between equals is gone entirely. Symbols are gifts, absolute, free,
hierarchical gifts, presented by a being so far above us that any thought
of reciprocity, debt, or mutual obligation is simply inconceivable.158

Compare the Greek dictionary above to the following, from a Chi-
nese dictionary:

FU. To agree with, to tally. The two halves of a tally.

• evidence; proof of identity, credentials

• to fulfill a promise, to keep one's word

• to reconcile

• the mutual agreement between Heaven's appointment
and human affairs

• a tally, a check

• an imperial seal or stamp

• a warrant, a commission, credentials

• like fitting the two halves of a tally, in exact agreement

• a symbol, a sign . . .'"

The evolution is almost exactly the same. Like symbola, fu can be
tallies, contracts, official seals, warrants, passports, or credentials. As
promises, they can embody an agreement, a debt contract, or even a
relation of feudal vassalage — since a minor lord agreeing to become

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301

another man's vassal would split a tally just as he would if borrowing
grain or money. The common feature seems to be a contract between
two parties that begin as equal, in which one agrees to become subordi-
nate. Later, as the state became more centralized, we mainly hear about
fu presented to officials as a means of conveying order: the official
would take the left half with him when posted to the provinces, and
when the emperor wished to send an important command, he would
send the right half with the messenger to make sure that the official
knew it was actually the imperial will.160

We've already seen how paper money seems to have developed
from paper versions of such debt contracts, ripped in half and reunited.
For Chinese theorists, of course, Aristotle's argument that money was
simply a social convention was hardly radical; it was simply assumed.
Money was whatever the emperor established it to be. Though even
here there was a slight proviso, as evidenced in the entry above, that
"fu" could also refer to "the mutual agreement between heaven's ap-
pointment and human affairs." Just as officials were appointed by the
emperor, the emperor was ultimately appointed by a higher power, and
he could only rule effectively as long as he kept its mandate, which is
why propitious omens were called "fu," signs that heaven approved of
the ruler, just as natural disasters were a sign that he had strayed.161

Here Chinese ideas did grow a bit closer to the Christian ones. But
Chinese conceptions of the cosmos had one crucial difference: since there
was no emphasis on the absolute gulf between our world and the one be-
yond it, contractual relations with the gods were by no means out of the
question. This was particularly true in Medieval Taoism, where monks
were ordained through a ceremony called "rending the tally," ripping
apart a piece of paper that represented a contract with heaven.162 It was
the same with the magical talismans, also called "fu," which an adept
might receive from his master. These were literally tallies: the adept kept
one; the other half was said to be retained by the gods. Such talismanic
fu took the form of diagrams, said to represent a form of celestial writ-
ing, comprehensible only to the gods, which committed them to assist the
bearer, often giving the adept the right to call on armies of divine protec-
tors with whose help he could slay demons, cure the sick, or otherwise
attain miraculous powers. But they could also become, like Dionysius'
symbola, objects of contemplation, by which one's mind can ultimately
attain some knowledge of the invisible world beyond our own.163

Many of the most compelling visual symbols to emerge from Me-
dieval China trace back to such talismans: the River Symbol, or, for
that matter, the yin-yang symbol that seems to have developed out of
it.164 Just looking at a yin-yang symbol, it is easy enough to imagine

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the left and right (sometimes, too, called "male" and "female") halves
of a tally.

A tally does away with the need for witnesses; if the two surfaces agree,
then everyone knows that the agreement between the contracting par-
ties exists as well. This is why Aristotle saw it as a fit metaphor for
words: word A corresponds to concept B because there is a tacit agree-
ment that we shall act as if it does. The striking thing about tallies is
that even though they might begin as simple tokens of friendship and
solidarity, in almost all the later examples, what the two parties actu-
ally agree to create is a relation of inequality: of debt, obligation, sub-
ordination to another's orders. This is in turn what makes it possible
to use the metaphor for the relation between the material world and
that more powerful world that ultimately gives it meaning. The two
sides are the same. Yet what they create is absolute difference. Hence
for a Medieval Christian mystic, as for Medieval Chinese magicians,
symbols could be literal fragments of heaven — even if for the first, they
provided a language whereby one could have some understanding of
beings one could not possibly interact with; while for the second, they
provided a way of interacting, even making practical arrangements,
with beings whose language one could not possibly understand.

On one level, this is just another version of the dilemmas that
always arise when we try to reimagine the world through debt — that
peculiar agreement between two equals that they shall no longer be
equals, until such time as they become equals once again. Still, the
problem took on a peculiar piquancy in the Middle Ages, when the
economy became, as it were, spiritualized. As gold and silver migrated
to holy places, ordinary transactions everywhere came to be carried out
primarily through credit. Inevitably, arguments about wealth and mar-
kets became arguments about debt and morality, and arguments about
debt and morality became arguments about the nature of our place in
the universe. As we've seen, the solutions varied considerably. Europe
and India saw a return to hierarchy: society became a ranked order
of Priests, Warriors, Merchants, and Farmers (or in Christendom, just
Priests, Warriors, and Farmers). Debts between the orders were con-
sidered threatening because they implied the potential of equality, and
they often led to outright violence. In China, in contrast, the principle
of debt often became the governing principle of the cosmos: karmic
debts, milk-debts, debt contracts between human beings and celestial
powers. From the point of view of the authorities, all these led to

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303

excess, and potentially to vast concentrations of capital that might
throw the entire social order out of balance. It was the responsibility of
government to intervene constantly to keep markets running smoothly
and equitably, thus avoiding new outbreaks of popular unrest. In the
world of Islam, where theologians held that God recreated the en-
tire universe at every instant, market fluctuations were instead seen as
merely another manifestation of divine will.

The striking thing is that the Confucian condemnation of the mer-
chant, and the Islamic celebration of the merchant, ultimately led to the
same thing: prosperous societies with flourishing markets, but where
the elements never came together to create the great merchant banks
and industrial firms that were to become the hallmark of modern capi-
talism. It's especially striking in the case of Islam. Certainly, the Islamic
world produced figures who would be hard to describe as anything
but capitalists. Large-scale merchants were referred to as sahib al-mal,
"owners of capital," and legal theorists spoke freely about the creation
and expansion of capital funds. At the height of the Caliphate, some
of these merchants were in possession of millions of dinars and seeking
profitable investment. Why did nothing like modern capitalism emerge?
I would highlight two factors. First, Islamic merchants appear to have
taken their free-market ideology seriously. The marketplace did not
fall under the direct supervision of the government; contracts were
made between individuals — ideally, "with a handshake and a glance at
heaven" — and thus honor and credit became largely indistinguishable.
This is inevitable: you can't have cutthroat competition where there
is no one stopping people from literally cutting one another's throats.
Second, Islam also took seriously the principle, later enshrined in clas-
sical economic theory but only unevenly observed in practice, that
profits are the reward for risk. Trading enterprises were assumed to
be, quite literally, adventures, in which traders exposed themselves to
the dangers of storm and shipwreck, savage nomads, forests, steppes,
and deserts, exotic and unpredictable foreign customs, and arbitrary
governments. Financial mechanisms designed to avoid these risks were
considered impious. This was one of the objections to usury: if one
demands a fixed rate of interest, the profits are guaranteed. Similarly,
commercial investors were expected to share the risk. This made most
of the forms of finance and insurance that were to later develop in
Europe impossible.165

In this sense the Buddhist monasteries of early Medieval China
represent the opposite extreme. The Inexhaustible Treasuries were in-
exhaustible because, by continually lending their money out at inter-
est and never otherwise touching their capital, they could guarantee

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effectively risk-free investments. That was the entire point. By doing so,
Buddhism, unlike Islam, produced something very much like what we
now call "corporations" — entities that, through a charming legal fic-
tion, we imagine to be persons, just like human beings, but immortal,
never having to go through all the human untidiness of marriage, re-
production, infirmity, and death. To put it in properly Medieval terms,
they are very much like angels.

Legally, our notion of the corporation is very much a product of
the European High Middle Ages. The legal idea of a corporation as a
"fictive person" {persona ficta) — a person who, as Maitland, the great
British legal historian, put it, "is immortal, who sues and is sued, who
holds lands, has a seal of his own, who makes regulations for those
natural persons of whom he is composed"166 — was first established in
canon law by Pope Innocent IV in 1250 ad, and one of the first kinds of
entities it applied to were monasteries — as also to universities, church-
es, municipalities, and guilds.167

The idea of the corporation as an angelic being is not mine, inci-
dentally. I borrowed it from the great Medievalist Ernst Kantorowicz,
who pointed out that all this was happening right around the same
time that Thomas Aquinas was developing the notion that angels were
really just the personification of Platonic Ideas.168 "According to the
teachings of Aquinas," he notes, "every angel represented a species."

Little wonder then that finally the personified collectives of
the jurists, which were juristically immortal species, displayed
all the features otherwise attributed to angels . . . The jurists
themselves recognized that there was some similarity between
their abstractions and the angelic beings. In this respect, it may
be said that the political and legal world of thought of the later
Middle Ages began to be populated by immaterial angelic bod-
ies, large and small: they were invisible, ageless, sempiternal,
immortal, and sometimes even ubiquitous; and they were en-
dowed with a corpus intellectuale or mysticum [an intellectual
or mystical body] which could stand any comparison with the
"spiritual bodies" of the celestial beings.169

All this is worth emphasizing because while we are used to assum-
ing that there's something natural or inevitable about the existence of
corporations, in historical terms, they are actually strange, exotic crea-
tures. No other great tradition came up with anything like it.170 They
are the most peculiarly European addition to that endless proliferation

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305

of metaphysical entities so characteristic of the Middle Ages — as well
as the most enduring.

They have, of course, changed a great deal over time. Medieval cor-
porations owned property, and they often engaged in complex financial
arrangements, but in no case were they profit-seeking enterprises in the
modern sense. The ones that came closest were, perhaps unsurpris-
ingly, monastic orders — above all, the Cistercians — whose monaster-
ies became something like the Chinese Buddhist ones, surrounded by
mills and smithies, practicing rationalized commercial agriculture with
a workforce of "lay brothers" who were effectively wage laborers,
spinning and exporting wool. Some even talk about "monastic capi-
talism."171 Still, the ground was only really prepared for capitalism in
the familiar sense of the term when the merchants began to organize
themselves into eternal bodies as a way to win monopolies, legal or de
facto, and avoid the ordinary risks of trade. An excellent case in point
was the Society of Merchant Adventurers, charted by King Henry IV
in London in 1407, who, despite the romantic-sounding name, were
mainly in the business of buying up British woolens and selling them
in the Flanders fairs. They were not a modern joint-stock company,
but a rather old-fashioned Medieval merchant guild, but they provided
a structure whereby older, more substantial merchants could simply
provide loans to younger ones, and they managed to secure enough of
an exclusive control over the woolen trade that substantial profits were
pretty much guaranteed.172 When such companies began to engage in
armed ventures overseas, though, a new era of human history might be
said to have begun.

Chapter Eleven

AGE OF THE GREAT CAPITALIST EMPIRES

(1450-1971AD)

"Eleven pesos, then; and as you can't
pay me the eleven pesos, that makes an-
other eleven pesos — twenty-two in all:
eleven for the serape and the petate and
eleven because you can't pay. Is that
right, CrisieroV

Crisiero had no knowledge of fig-
ures, so it was very natural that he
said, "That is right, patron."

Don Arnulfo was a decent, honor-
able man. Other landowners were a good
deal less softhearted with their peons.

"The shirt is five pesos. Right?
Very well. And as you can't pay for it,
that's five pesos. And as you remain in
my debt for the five pesos, that's five
pesos. And as 1 shall never have the
money from you, that's five pesos. So
that makes five and five and five and
five. That's twenty pesos. Agreed}"

"Yes, patron, agreed."

The peon can get the shirt no-
where else when he needs one. He
can get credit nowhere but from his
master, for whom he works and from
whom he can never get away as long
as he owes him a centavo.

— B. Traven, The Carreta

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THE EPOCH THAT BEGAN with what we're used to calling the "Age
of Exploration" was marked by so many things that were genuinely
new — the rise of modern science, capitalism, humanism, the nation-
state — that it may seem odd to frame it as just another turn of an
historical cycle. Still, from the perspective I've been developing in this
book, that is what it was.

The era begins around 1450 with a turn away from virtual curren-
cies and credit economies and back to gold and silver. The subsequent
flow of bullion from the Americas sped the process immensely, spark-
ing a "price revolution" in Western Europe that turned traditional
society upside-down. What's more, the return to bullion was accompa-
nied by the return of a whole host of other conditions that, during the
Middle Ages, had been largely suppressed or kept at bay: vast empires
and professional armies, massive predatory warfare, untrammeled usu-
ry and debt peonage, but also materialist philosophies, a new burst of
scientific and philosophical creativity — even the return of chattel slav-
ery. It was in no way a simple repeat performance. All the Axial Age
pieces reappeared, but they came together in an entirely different way.

The 1400s are a peculiar period in European history. It was a century
of endless catastrophe: large cities were regularly decimated by the
Black Death; the commercial economy sagged and in some regions col-
lapsed entirely; whole cities went bankrupt, defaulting on their bonds;
the knightly classes squabbled over the remnants, leaving much of
the countryside devastated by endemic warfare. Even in geopolitical
terms Christendom was staggering, with the Ottoman Empire not only
scooping up what remained of Byzantium but pushing steadily into
central Europe, its forces expanding on land and sea.

At the same time, from the perspective of many ordinary farmers
and urban laborers, times couldn't have been much better. One of the
perverse effects of the bubonic plague, which killed off about one-third
of the European workforce, was that wages increased dramatically. It
didn't happen immediately, but this was largely because the first reac-
tion of the authorities was to enact legislation freezing wages, or even
attempting to tie free peasants back to the land again. Such efforts were
met with powerful resistance, culminating in a series of popular upris-
ings across Europe. These were squelched, but the authorities were also
forced to compromise. Before long, so much wealth was flowing into
the hands of ordinary people that governments had to start introducing

AGE OF THE GREAT CAPITALIST EMPIRES

309

new laws forbidding the lowborn to wear silks and ermine, and to limit
the number of feast days, which, in many towns and parishes, began
eating up one-third or even half of the year. The fifteenth century is, in
fact, considered the heyday of Medieval festive life, with its floats and
dragons, maypoles and church ales, its Abbots of Unreason and Lords
of Misrule.'

Over the next centuries, all this was to be destroyed. In England,
the festive life was systematically attacked by Puritan reformers; then
eventually by reformers everywhere, Catholic and Protestant alike. At
the same time its economic basis in popular prosperity dissolved.

Why this happened has been a matter of intense historical debate
for centuries. This much we know: it began with a massive inflation.
Between 1500 and 1650, for instance, prices in England increased 500
percent, but wages rose much more slowly, so that in five generations,
real wages fell to perhaps 40 percent of what they had been. The same
thing happened everywhere in Europe.

Why? The favorite explanation, ever since a French lawyer named
Jean Bodin first proposed it in 1568, was the vast influx of gold and
silver that came pouring into Europe after the conquest of the New
World. As the value of precious metals collapsed, the argument went,
the price of everything else skyrocketed, and wages simply couldn't
keep up.2 There is some evidence to support this. The height of popular
prosperity around 1450 did correspond to a period when bullion — and
therefore, coin — was in particularly short supply.3 The lack of cash
played havoc with international trade in particular; in the 1460s, we
hear of ships full of wares forced to turn back from major ports, as no
one had any cash on hand to buy from them. The problem only started
to turn around later in the decade, with a sudden burst of silver mining
in Saxony and the Tirol, followed by the opening of new sea routes to
the Gold Coast of West Africa. Then came the conquests of Cortes and
Pizarro. Between 1520 and 1640, untold tons of gold and silver from
Mexico and Peru were transported across the Atlantic and Pacific in
Spanish treasure ships.

The problem with the conventional story is that very little of that
gold and silver lingered very long in Europe. Most of the gold ended
up in temples in India, and the overwhelming majority of the silver
bullion was ultimately shipped off to China. The latter is crucial. If we
really want to understand the origins of the modern world economy,
the place to start is not in Europe at all. The real story is of how China
abandoned the use of paper money. It's a story worth telling briefly,
because very few people know it.

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After the Mongols conquered China in 1271, they kept the system of
paper money in place, and even made occasional (if usually disastrous)
attempts to introduce it in the other parts of their empire. In 1368,
however, they were overthrown by another of China's great popular
insurrections, and a former peasant leader was once again installed
in power.

During their century of rule, the Mongols had worked closely with
foreign merchants, who became widely detested. Partly as a result, the
former rebels, now the Ming dynasty, were suspicious of commerce in
any form, and they promoted a romantic vision of self-sufficient agrar-
ian communities. This had some unfortunate consequences. For one
thing, it meant the maintenance of the old Mongol tax system, paid in
labor and in kind; especially since that, in turn, was based on a quasi-
caste system in which subjects were registered as farmers, craftsmen,
or soldiers and forbidden to change their jobs. This proved extraordi-
narily unpopular. While government investment in agriculture, roads,
and canals did set off a commercial boom, much of this commerce was
technically illegal, and taxes on crops were so high that many indebted
farmers began to flee their ancestral lands.4

Typically, such floating populations can be expected to seek just
about anything but regular industrial employment; here as in Europe,
most preferred a combination of odd jobs, peddling, entertainment,
piracy, or banditry. In China, many also turned prospector. There
was a minor silver rush, with illegal mines cropping up everywhere.
Uncoined silver ingots, instead of official paper money and strings of
bronze coins, soon became the real money of the off-the-books infor-
mal economy. When the government attempted to shut down illegal
mines in the 1430s and 1440s, their efforts sparked local insurrections,
in which miners would make common cause with displaced peasants,
seize nearby cities, and sometimes threaten entire provinces.5

In the end, the government gave up even trying to suppress the
informal economy. Instead, they swung the other way entirely: stopped
issuing paper money, legalized the mines, allowed silver bullion to
become the recognized currency for large transactions, and even gave
private mints the authority to produce strings of cash.6 This, in turn,
allowed the government to gradually abandon the system of labor ex-
actions and substitute a uniform tax system payable in silver.

Effectively, the Chinese government had gone back to its old policy
of encouraging markets and merely intervening to prevent any undue
concentrations of capital. It quickly proved spectacularly successful,

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311

and Chinese markets boomed. Indeed, many speak of the Ming as
having accomplished something almost unique in world history: this
was a time when the Chinese population was exploding, but living
standards markedly improved.7 The problem was that the new policy
meant that the regime had to ensure an abundant supply of silver in
the country, so as to keep its price low and minimize popular unrest —
but as it turned out, the Chinese mines were very quickly exhausted.
In the 1530s, new silver mines were discovered in Japan, but these were
exhausted in a decade or two as well. Before long, China had to turn
to Europe and the New World.

Now, since Roman times, Europe had been exporting gold and
silver to the East: the problem was that Europe had never produced
much of anything that Asians wanted to buy, so it was forced to pay
in specie for silks, spices, steel, and other imports. The early years of
European expansion were largely attempts to gain access either to East-
ern luxuries or to new sources of gold and silver with which to pay for
them. In those early days, Atlantic Europe really had only one substan-
tial advantage over its Muslim rivals: an active and advanced tradition
of naval warfare, honed by centuries of conflict in the Mediterranean.
The moment when Vasco da Gama entered the Indian Ocean in 1498,
the principle that the seas should be a zone of peaceful trade came to
an immediate end. Portuguese flotillas began bombarding and sack-
ing every port city they came across, then seizing control of strategic
points and extorting protection money from unarmed Indian Ocean
merchants for the right to carry on their business unmolested.

At almost exactly the same time, Christopher Columbus — a Geno-
ese mapmaker seeking a short-cut to China — touched land in the New
World, and the Spanish and Portuguese empires stumbled into the
greatest economic windfall in human history: entire continents full of
unfathomable wealth, whose inhabitants, armed only with Stone Age
weapons, began conveniently dying almost as soon as they arrived. The
conquest of Mexico and Peru led to the discovery of enormous new
sources of precious metal, and these were exploited ruthlessly and sys-
tematically, even to the point of largely exterminating the surrounding
populations to extract as much precious metal as quickly as possible.
As Kenneth Pomeranz has recently pointed out, none of this would
have been possible were it not for the practically unlimited Asian de-
mand for precious metals.

Had China in particular not had such a dynamic economy that
changing its metallic base could absorb the staggering quanti-
ties of silver mined in the New World over three centuries,

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those mines might have become unprofitable within a few de-
cades. The massive inflation of silver-denominated prices in
Europe from 1500 to 1640 indicates a shrinking value for the
metal there even with Asia draining off much of the supply.8

By 1540, a silver glut caused a collapse in prices across Europe; the
American mines would, at this point, simply have stopped functioning,
and the entire project of American colonization foundered, had it not
been for the demand from China.' Treasure galleons moving toward
Europe soon refrained from unloading their cargoes, instead rounding
the horn of Africa and proceeding across the Indian Ocean toward
Canton. After 1571, with the foundation of the Spanish city of Manila,
they began to move directly across the Pacific. By the late sixteenth
century, China was importing almost fifty tons of silver a year, about
90 percent of its silver, and by the early seventeenth century, 116 tons,
or over 97 percent.10 Huge amounts of silk, porcelain, and other Chi-
nese products had to be exported to pay for it. Many of these Chinese
products, in turn, ended up in the new cities of Central and South
America. This Asian trade became the single most significant factor
in the emerging global economy, and those who ultimately controlled
the financial levers — particularly Italian, Dutch, and German merchant
bankers — became fantastically rich.

But how exactly did the new global economy cause the collapse
of living standards in Europe? One thing we do know: it clearly was
not by making large amounts of precious metal available for everyday
transactions. If anything, the effect was the opposite. While European
mints were stamping out enormous numbers of rials, thalers, ducats,
and doubloons, which became the new medium of trade from Ni-
caragua to Bengal, almost none found their way into the pockets of
ordinary Europeans. Instead, we hear constant complaints about the
shortage of currency. In England:

For much of the Tudor period the circulating medium was so
small that the taxable population simply did not have sufficient
coin in which to pay the benevolences, subsidies, and tenths
levied upon them, and time and time again household plate,
the handiest near money that most people possessed, had to be
surrendered.11

This was the case in most of Europe. Despite the massive influx
of metal from the Americas, most families were so low on cash that

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313

they were regularly reduced to melting down the family silver to pay
their taxes.

This was because taxes had to be paid in metal. Everyday business
in contrast continued to be transacted much as it had in the Middle
Ages, by means of various forms of virtual credit money: tallies, prom-
issory notes, or, within smaller communities, simply by keeping track
of who owed what to whom. What really caused the inflation is that
those who ended up in control of the bullion — governments, bankers,
large-scale merchants — were able to use that control to begin chang-
ing the rules, first by insisting that gold and silver were money, and
second by introducing new forms of credit-money for their own use
while slowly undermining and destroying the local systems of trust that
had allowed small-scale communities across Europe to operate largely
without the use of metal currency.

This was a political battle, even if it was also a conceptual argu-
ment about the nature of money. The new regime of bullion money
could only be imposed through almost unparalleled violence — not only
overseas, but at home as well. In much of Europe, the first reaction to
the "price revolution" and accompanying enclosures of common lands
was not very different from what had so recently happened in China:
thousands of one-time peasants fleeing or being forced out of their vil-
lages to become vagabonds or "masterless men," a process that culmi-
nated in popular insurrections. The reaction of European governments,
however, was entirely different. The rebellions were crushed, and this
time, no subsequent concessions were forthcoming. Vagabonds were
rounded up, exported to the colonies as indentured laborers, and draft-
ed into colonial armies and navies — or, eventually, set to work in
factories at home.

Almost all of this was carried out through a manipulation of debt.
As a result, the very nature of debt, too, became once again one of the
principal bones of contention.

Part I:

Greed, Terror, Indignation, Debt

No doubt scholars will never stop arguing about the reasons for the
great "price revolution" — largely because it's not clear what kind of
tools can be applied. Can we really use the methods of modern econom-
ics, which were designed to understand how contemporary economic

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institutions operate, to describe the political battles that led to the
creation of those very institutions?

This is not just a conceptual problem. There are moral dangers
here. To take what might seem an "objective," macro-economic ap-
proach to the origins of the world economy would be to treat the
behavior of early European explorers, merchants, and conquerors as if
they were simply rational responses to opportunities — as if this were
just what anyone would have done in the same situation. This is what
the use of equations so often does: make it seem perfectly natural to
assume that, if the price of silver in China is twice what it is in Seville,
and inhabitants of Seville are capable of getting their hands on large
quantities of silver and transporting it to China, then clearly they will,
even if doing so requires the destruction of entire civilizations. Or if
there is a demand for sugar in England, and enslaving millions is the
easiest way to acquire labor to produce it, then it is inevitable that
some will enslave them. In fact, history makes it quite clear that this is
not the case. Any number of civilizations have probably been in a posi-
tion to wreak havoc on the scale that the European powers did in the
sixteenth and seventeenth centuries (Ming China itself was an obvious
candidate), but almost none actually did so.12

Consider, for instance, how the gold and silver from the American
mines were extracted. Mining operations began almost immediately
upon the fall of the Aztec capital of Tenochtitlan in 1521. While we
are used to assuming that the Mexican population was devastated sim-
ply as an effect of newly introduced European diseases, contemporary
observers felt that the dragooning of the newly conquered natives to
work in the mines was at least equally responsible.13 In The Conquest
of America, Tzvetan Todorov offers a compendium of some of the
most chilling reports, mostly from Spanish priests and friars who, even
when committed in principle to the belief that the extermination of
the Indians was the judgment of God, could not disguise their horror
at scenes of Spanish soldiers testing the blades of their weapons by
eviscerating random passers-by, and tearing babies off their mother's
backs to be eaten by dogs. Such acts might perhaps be written off as
what one would expect when a collection of heavily armed men — many
of violent criminal background — are given absolute impunity; but the
reports from the mines imply something far more systematic. When
Fray Toribio de Motolinia wrote of the ten plagues that he believed
God had visited on the inhabitants of Mexico, he listed smallpox, war,
famine, labor exactions, taxes (which caused many to sell their children
to moneylenders, others to be tortured to death in cruel prisons), and

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315

the thousands who died in the building of the capital city. Above all, he
insisted, were the uncountable numbers who died in the mines:

The eighth plague was the slaves whom the Spaniards made in
order to put them to work in the mines. At first those who were
already slaves of the Aztecs were taken; then those who had
given evidence of insubordination; finally all those who could
be caught. During the first years after the conquest, the slave
traffic flourished, and slaves often changed master. They pro-
duced so many marks on their faces, in addition to the royal
brand, that they had their faces covered with letters, for they
bore the marks of all who had bought and sold them.

The ninth plague was the service in the mines, to which the
heavily laden Indians traveled sixty leagues or more to carry
provisions . . . When their food gave out they died, either at
the mines or on the road, for they had no money to buy food
and there was no one to give it to them. Some reached home
in such a state that they died soon after. The bodies of those
Indians and of the slaves who died in the mines produced such
a stench that it caused a pestilence, especially at the mines of
Oaxaca. For half a league around these mines and along a great
part of the road one could scarcely avoid walking over dead
bodies or bones, and the flocks of birds and crows that came
to fatten themselves upon the corpses were so numerous that
they darkened the sun."14

Similar scenes were reported in Peru, where whole regions were
depopulated by forced service in the mines, and Hispaniola, where the
indigenous population was eradicated entirely.15

When dealing with conquistadors, we are speaking not just of
simple greed, but greed raised to mythic proportions. This is, after all,
what they are best remembered for. They never seemed to get enough.
Even after the conquest of Tenochtitlan or Cuzco, and the acquisition
of hitherto-unimaginable riches, the conquerors almost invariably re-
grouped and started off in search of more treasure.

Moralists throughout the ages have inveighed against the endless-
ness of human greed, just as they have against our supposedly endless
lust for power. What history actually reveals, though, is that while
humans may be justly accused of having a proclivity to accuse others of
acting like conquistadors, few really act this way themselves. Even for
the most ambitious of us, our dreams are more like Sindbad's: to have
adventures, to acquire the means to settle down and live an enjoyable

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life, and then, to enjoy it. Max Weber of course argued that the es-
sence of capitalism is the urge — which he thought first appeared in
Calvinism — never to settle down, but to engage in endless expansion.
But the conquistadors were good Medieval Catholics, even if ones usu-
ally drawn from the most ruthless and unprincipled elements of Span-
ish society. Why the unrelenting drive for more and more and more?

It might help, I think, to go back to the very onset of Hernan Cor-
tes's conquest of Mexico: What were his immediate motives? Cortes
had migrated to the colony of Hispaniola in 1504, dreaming of glory
and adventure, but for the first decade and a half, his adventures had
largely consisted of seducing other people's wives. In 1518, however,
he managed to finagle his way into being named commander of an
expedition to establish a Spanish presence on the mainland. As Bernal
Diaz del Castillo, who accompanied him, later wrote, around this time

He began to adorn himself and be more careful of his appear-
ance than before. He wore a plume of feathers, with a medal-
lion and a gold chain, and a velvet cloak trimmed with loops
of gold. In fact he looked like a bold and gallant Captain.
However, he had no money to defray the expenses I have spo-
ken about, for at the time he was very poor and much in debt,
despite the fact that he had a good estate of Indians and was
getting gold from the mines. But all this he spent on his person,
on finery for his wife, whom he had recently married, and on
entertaining guests . . .

When some merchant friends of his heard that he had ob-
tained his command as Captain General, they lent him four
thousand gold pesos in coin and another four thousand in
goods secured on his Indians and estates. He then ordered two
standards and banners to be made, worked in gold with the
royal arms and a cross on each side with a legend which said,
"Comrades, let us follow the sign of the Holy Cross with true
faith, and through it we shall conquer."16

In other words, he'd been living beyond his means, got himself
in trouble, and decided, like a reckless gambler, to double down and
go for broke. Unsurprising, then, that when the governor at the last
minute decided to cancel the expedition, Cortes ignored him and sailed
for the mainland with six hundred men, offering each an equal share
in the expedition's profits. On landing he burned his boats, effectively
staking everything on victory.

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317

Let us skip, then, from the beginning of Diaz's book to its final
chapter. Three years later, through some of the most ingenious, ruth-
less,'brilliant, and utterly dishonorable behavior by a military leader
ever recorded, Cortes had his victory. After eight months of grueling
house-to-house warfare and the death of perhaps a hundred thousand
Aztecs, Tenochtitlan, one of the greatest cities of the world, lay entirely
destroyed. The imperial treasury was secured, and the time had come,
then, for it to be divided in shares amongst the surviving soldiers.

Yet according to Diaz, the result among the men was outrage. The
officers connived to sequester most of the gold, and when the final
tally was announced, the troops learned that they would be receiving
only fifty to eighty pesos each. What's more, the better part of their
shares was immediately seized again by the officers in their capacity
of creditors — since Cortes had insisted that the men be billed for any
replacement equipment and medical care they had received during the
siege. Most found they had actually lost money on the deal. Diaz
writes:

We were all very deeply in debt. A crossbow was not to be
purchased for less than forty or fifty pesos, a musket cost one
hundred, a sword fifty, and a horse from 800 to 1000 pesos,
and above. Thus extravagantly did we have to pay for every-
thing! A surgeon, who called himself Mastre Juan, who had
tended some very bad wounds, charged wildly inflated fees,
and so did a quack named Murcia, who was an apothecary and
a barber and also treated wounds, and there were thirty other
tricks and swindles for which payment was demanded of our
shares as soon as we received them.

Serious complaints were made about this, and the only rem-
edy that Cortes provided was to appoint two trustworthy per-
sons who knew the prices of goods and could value anything
that we had bought on credit. An order went out that whatever
price was placed on our purchases or the surgeon's cures must
be accepted, but that if we had no money, our creditors must
wait two years for payment.17

Spanish merchants soon arrived charging wildly inflated prices for
basic necessities, causing further outrage, until:

Our general becoming weary of the continual reproaches which
were thrown out against him, saying he had stolen everything
for himself, and the endless petitions for loans and advance

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in pay, determined at once to get rid of the most troublesome
fellows, by forming settlements in those provinces which ap-
peared most eligible for this purpose.18

These were the men who ended up in control of the provinces, and
who established local administration, taxes, and labor regimes. Which
makes it a little easier to understand the descriptions of Indians with
their faces covered by names like so many counter-endorsed checks,
or the mines surrounded by miles of rotting corpses. We are not deal-
ing with a psychology of cold, calculating greed, but of a much more
complicated mix of shame and righteous indignation, and of the frantic
urgency of debts that would only compound and accumulate (these
were, almost certainly, interest-bearing loans), and outrage at the idea
that, after all they had gone through, they should be held to owe any-
thing to begin with.

And what of Cortes? He had just pulled off perhaps the greatest
act of theft in world history. Certainly, his original debts had now
been rendered inconsequential. Yet he somehow always seemed to find
himself in new ones. Creditors were already starting to repossess his
holdings while he was off on an expedition to Honduras in 1526; on his
return, he wrote the Emperor Charles V that his expenses were such
that "all I have received has been insufficient to relive me from misery
and poverty, being at the moment I write in debt for upwards of five
hundred ounces of gold, without possessing a single peso towards it."19
Disingenuous, no doubt (Cortes at the time owned his own personal
palace), but only a few years later, he was reduced to pawning his
wife's jewelry to help finance a series of expeditions to California, hop-
ing to restore his fortunes. When those failed to turn a profit, he ended
up so besieged by creditors that he had to return to Spain to petition
the emperor in person.20

If all this seems suspiciously reminiscent of the fourth Crusade, with its
indebted knights stripping whole foreign cities of their wealth and still
somehow winding up only one step ahead of their creditors, there is a
reason. The financial capital that backed these expeditions came from
more or less the same place (if in this case Genoa, not Venice). What's
more, that relationship, between the daring adventurer on the one
hand, the gambler willing to take any sort of risk, and on the other,
the careful financier, whose entire operations are organized around

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319

producing steady, mathematical, inexorable growth of income, lies at
the very heart of what we now call "capitalism."

As a result, our current economic system has always been marked
by a peculiar dual character. Scholars have long been fascinated by
Spanish debates that ensued, in Spanish universities like Santander,
about the humanity of the Indians (Did they have souls? Could they
have legal rights? Was it legitimate to forcibly enslave them?), just as
they have argued about the real attitudes of the conquistadors (was it
contempt, revulsion, or even grudging admiration for their adversar-
ies?)21 The real point is that at the key moments of decision, none of
this mattered. Those making the decisions did not feel they were in
control anyway; those who were did not particularly care to know the
details. To take a telling example: after the earliest years of the gold
and silver mines described by Motolinia, where millions of Indians
were simply rounded up and marched off to their deaths, colonists
settled on a policy of debt peonage: the usual trick of demanding
heavy taxes, lending money at interest to those who could not pay,
and then demanding that the loans be repaid with work. Royal agents
regularly attempted to forbid such practices, arguing that the Indians
were now Christian and that this violated their rights as loyal subjects
of the Spanish crown. But as with almost all such royal efforts to act
as protector of the Indians, the result was the same. Financial exigen-
cies ended up taking precedence. Charles V himself was deeply in debt
to banking firms in Florence, Genoa, and Naples, and gold and silver
from the Americas made up perhaps one-fifth of his total revenue. In
the end, despite a lot of initial noise and the (usually quite sincere)
moral outrage on the part of the king's emissaries, such decrees were
either ignored or, at best, enforced for a year or two before being al-
lowed to slip into abeyance.22

All of this helps explain why the Church had been so uncompromising
in its attitude toward usury. It was not just a philosophical question;
it was a matter of moral rivalry. Money always has the potential to
become a moral imperative unto itself. Allow it to expand, and it can
quickly become a morality so imperative that all others seem frivolous
in comparison. For the debtor, the world is reduced to a collection of
potential dangers, potential tools, and potential merchandise.23 Even
human relations become a matter of cost-benefit calculation. Clearly
this is the way the conquistadors viewed the worlds that they set out
to conquer.

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It is the peculiar feature of modern capitalism to create social ar-
rangements that essentially force us to think this way. The structure of
the corporation is a telling case in point — and it is no coincidence that
the first major joint-stock corporations in the world were the English
and Dutch East India companies, ones that pursued that very same
combination of exploration, conquest, and extraction as did the con-
quistadors. It is a structure designed to eliminate all moral imperatives
but profit. The executives who make decisions can argue — and regu-
larly do — that, if it were their own money, of course they would not
fire lifelong employees a week before retirement, or dump carcinogenic
waste next to schools. Yet they are morally bound to ignore such con-
siderations, because they are mere employees whose only responsibility
is to provide the maximum return on investment for the company's
stockholders. (The stockholders, of course, are not given any say.)

The figure of Cortes is instructive for another reason. We are
speaking of a man who, in 1521, had conquered a kingdom and was
sitting atop a vast pile of gold. Neither did he have any intention of
giving it away — even to his followers. Five years later, he was claiming
to be a penniless debtor. How was this possible?

The obvious answer would be: Cortes was not a king, he was a
subject of the King of Spain, living within the legal structure of a king-
dom that insisted that, if he were not good at managing his money,
he would lose it. Yet as we've seen, the king's laws could be ignored
in other cases. What's more, even kings were not entirely free agents.
Charles V was continually in debt, and when his son Philip II — his
armies fighting on three different fronts at once — attempted the old
Medieval trick of defaulting, all his creditors, from the Genoese Bank
of St. George to the German Fuggers and Welsers, closed ranks to
insist that he would receive no further loans until he started honoring
his commitments.24

Capital, then, is not simply money. It is not even just wealth that
can be turned into money. But neither is it just the use of political pow-
er to help one use one's money to make more money. Cortes was trying
to do exactly that: in classical Axial Age fashion, he was attempting
to use his conquests to acquire plunder, and slaves to work the mines,
with which he could pay his soldiers and suppliers cash to embark on
even further conquests. It was a tried-and-true formula. But for all the
other conquistadors, it provided a spectacular failure.

This would seem to mark the difference. In the Axial Age, money
was a tool of empire. It might have been convenient for rulers to pro-
mulgate markets in which everyone would treat money as an end in
itself; at times, rulers might have even come to see the whole apparatus

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321

of government as a profit-making enterprise; but money always re-
mained a political instrument. This is why when the empires collapsed
and armies were demobilized, the whole apparatus could simply melt
away. Under the newly emerging capitalist order, the logic of money
was granted autonomy; political and military power were then gradu-
ally reorganized around it. True, this was a financial logic that could
never have existed without states and armies behind it in the first
place. As we have seen in the case of Medieval Islam, under genuine
free-market conditions — in which the state is not involved in regulat-
ing the market in any significant way, even in enforcing commercial
contracts — purely competitive markets will not develop, and loans at
interest will become effectively impossible to collect. It was only the
Islamic prohibition against usury, really, that made it possible for them
to create an economic system that stood so far apart from the state.

Martin Luther was making this very point in 1524, right around the
time that Cortes was first beginning to have trouble with his creditors.
It is all very well, Luther said, for us to imagine that all might live as
true Christians, in accordance with the dictates of the Gospel. But in
fact there are few who are really capable of acting this way:

Christians are rare in this world; therefore the world needs a
strict, hard, temporal government that will compel and con-
strain the wicked not to rob and to return what they borrow,
even though a Christian ought not to demand it, or even hope
to get it back. This is necessary in order that the world not
become a desert, peace may not perish, and trade and society
not be utterly destroyed; all of which would happen if we were
to rule the world according to the Gospel and not drive and
compel the wicked, by laws and the use of force, to do what is
right . . . Let no one think that the world can be ruled without
blood; the sword of the ruler must be red and bloody; for the
world will and must be evil, and the sword is God's rod and
vengeance upon it.25

"Not to rob and to return what they borrow" — a telling juxtaposi-
tion, considering that in Scholastic theory, lending money at interest
had itself been considered theft.

And Luther was referring to interest-bearing loans here. The story
of how he got to this point is telling. Luther began his career as a re-
former in 1520 with fiery campaigns against usury; in fact, one of his
objections to the sale of Church indulgences was that it was itself a
form of spiritual usury. These positions won him enormous popular

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support in towns and villages. However, he soon realized that he'd un-
leashed a genie that threatened to turn the whole world upside-down.
More radical reformers appeared, arguing that the poor were not mor-
ally obliged to repay the interest on usurious loans, and proposing the
revival of Old Testament institutions like the sabbatical year. They
were followed by outright revolutionary preachers who began once
again questioning the very legitimacy of aristocratic privilege and pri-
vate property. In 1525, the year after Luther's sermon, there was a mas-
sive uprising of peasants, miners, and poor townsfolk across Germany:
the rebels, in most cases, representing themselves as simple Christians
aiming to restore the true communism of the Gospels. Over a hundred
thousand were slaughtered. Already in 1524, Luther had a sense that
matters were spilling out of control and that he would have to choose
sides: in that text, he did so. Old Testament laws like the Sabbatical
year, he argued, are no longer binding; the Gospel merely describes
ideal behavior; humans are sinful creatures, so law is necessary; while
usury is a sin, a four to five-percent rate of interest is currently legal
under certain circumstances; and while collecting that interest is sinful,
under no circumstances is it legitimate to argue that for that reason,
borrowers have the right to break the law.26

The Swiss Protestant reformer Zwingli was even more explicit.
God, he argued, gave us the divine law: to love thy neighbor as thyself.
If we truly kept this law, humans would give freely to one another, and
private property would not exist. However, Jesus excepted, no human
being has ever been able to live up to this pure communistic standard.
Therefore, God has also given us a second, inferior, human law, to be
enforced by the civil authorities. While this inferior law cannot com-
pel us to act as we really ought to act ("the magistrate can force no
one to lend out what belongs to him without hope of recompense or
profit") — at least it can make us follow the lead of the apostle Paul,
who said: "Pay all men what you owe."27

Soon afterward, Calvin was to reject the blanket ban on usury
entirely, and by 1650, almost all Protestant denominations had come to
agree with his position that a reasonable rate of interest (usually five
percent) was not sinful, provided the lenders act in good conscience,
do not make lending their exclusive business, and do not exploit the
poor.28 (Catholic doctrine was slower to come around, but it did ulti-
mately accede by passive acquiescence.)

If one looks at how all this was justified, two things jump out. First,
Protestant thinkers all continued to make the old Medieval argument
about interesse: that "interest" is really compensation for the money
that the lender would have made had he been able to place his money

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323

in some more profitable investment. Originally, this logic was just ap-
plied to commercial loans. Increasingly, it was now applied to all loans.
Far from being unnatural, then, the growth of money was now treated
as completely expected. All money was assumed to be capital.29 Second,
the assumption that usury is something that one properly practices on
one's enemies, and therefore, by extension, that all commerce partakes
something of the nature of war, never entirely disappears. Calvin, for
instance, denied that Deuteronomy only referred to the Amalekites;
clearly, he said, it meant that usury was acceptable when dealing with
Syrians or Egyptians; indeed with all nations with whom the Jews
traded.30 The result of opening the gates was, at least tacitly, to sug-
gest that one could now treat anyone, even a neighbor, as a foreigner.31
One need only observe how European merchant adventurers of the day
actually were treating foreigners, in Asia, Africa, and the Americas, to
understand what this might mean in practice.

Or, one might look closer to home. Take the story of another
well-known debtor of the time, the Margrave Casimir of Brandenburg-
Ansbach (1481-1527), of the famous Hohenzollern dynasty:

Casimir was the son of Margrave Friedrich the Elder of Branden-
burg, who has come to be known as one of the "mad princes" of the
German Renaissance. Sources differ on just how mad he actually was.
One contemporary chronicle describes him as "somewhat deranged in
his head from too much racing and jousting;" most agree that he was
given to fits of inexplicable rage, as well as to the sponsorship of wild,
extravagant festivals, said often to have degenerated into wild baccha-
nalian orgies.32

All agree, however, that he was poor at managing his money.
At the beginning of 1515, Friedrich was in such financial trouble — he
is said to have owed 200,000 guilders — that he alerted his creditors,
mostly fellow nobles, that he might soon be forced to temporarily sus-
pend interest payments on his debts. This seems to have caused a crisis
of faith, and within a matter of weeks, his son Casimir staged a palace
coup — moving, in the early hours of February 26, 1515, to seize control
of the castle of Plassenburg while his father was distracted with the
celebration of Carnival, then forcing him to sign papers abdicating for
reason of mental infirmity. Friedrich spent the rest of his life confined
in Plassenburg, denied all visitors and correspondence. When at one
point his guards requested that the new Margrave provide a couple
guilders so he could pass the time gambling with them, Casimir made
a great public show of refusal, stating (ridiculously, of course) that his
father had left his affairs in such disastrous shape that he could not
possibly afford to.33

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Casimir dutifully doled out governorships and other prize offices to
his father's creditors. He tried to get his house in order, but this proved
surprisingly difficult. His enthusiastic embrace of Luther's reforms in
1521 clearly had as much to do with the prospect of getting his hands
on Church lands and monastic assets than with any particular religious
fervor. Yet at first, the disposition of Church property remained moot,
and Casimir himself compounded his problems by running up gambling
debts of his own said to have amounted to nearly 50,000 guilders.34

Placing his creditors in charge of the civil administration had pre-
dictable effects: increasing exactions on his subjects, many of whom
became hopelessly indebted themselves. Unsurprisingly, Casimir's lands
in the Tauber Valley in Franconia became one of the epicenters of
the revolt of 1525. Bands of armed villagers assembled, declaring they
would obey no law that did not accord with "the holy word of God."
At first, the nobles, isolated in their scattered castles, offered little re-
sistance. The rebel leaders — many of them local shopkeepers, butchers,
and other prominent men from nearby towns — began with a largely
orderly campaign of tearing down castle fortifications, their knightly
occupants being offered guarantees of safety if they cooperated, agreed
to abandon their feudal privileges, and swore oaths to abide by the reb-
els' Twelve Articles. Many complied. The real venom of the rebels was
reserved for cathedrals and monasteries, dozens of which were sacked,
pillaged, and destroyed.

Casimir's reaction was to hedge his bets. At first he bided his time,
assembling an armed force of about two thousand experienced soldiers,
but refusing to intervene as rebels pillaged several nearby monasteries;
in fact, negotiating with the various rebel bands in such apparent good
faith that many believed he was preparing to join them "as a Christian
brother."35 In May, however, after the knights of the Swabian League
defeated the rebels of the Christian Union to the south, Casimir swung
into action, his forces brushing aside poorly disciplined rebel bands
to sweep through his own territories like a conquering army, burning
and pillaging villages and towns, slaughtering women and children. In
every town he set up punitive tribunals, and seized all looted property,
which he kept, even as his men also expropriated any wealth still to
be found in the region's cathedrals, ostensibly as emergency loans to
pay his troops.

It seems significant that Casimir was, of all the German princes,
both the longest to waver before intervening, and the most savagely
vengeful once he did. His forces became notorious not only for execut-
ing accused rebels, but systematically chopping off the fingers of ac-
cused collaborators, his executioner keeping a grim ledger of amputated

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325

body parts for later reimbursement — a kind of carnal inversion of the
account ledgers that had caused him so much trouble in his life. At one
point, in the town of Kitzingen, Casimir ordered the gouging out of the
eyes of fifty-eight burghers who had, he declared, "refused to look at
him as their lord." Afterward he received the following bill:36

80 beheaded

69 eyes put out or fingers cut off 114 Vi fl.

from this to deduct

received from the Rothenburgers 10 fl.

received from Ludwig von Hutten 2 fl.

Remainder

Plus 2 months' pay at 8 fl. per month 16 fl.

Total 118 Vi fl.

[Signed] Augustin, the executioner, who the Kitzingers call "Master
Ouch."

The repression eventually inspired Casimir's brother Georg (later
known as "the Pious") to write a letter asking him if Casimir was in-
tending to take up a trade — since, as Georg gently reminded him, he
could not very well continue to be a feudal overlord if his peasants
were all dead.37

With such things happening, it is hardly surprising that men like
Thomas Hobbes came to imagine the basic nature of society as a war
of all against all, from which only the absolute power of monarchs
could save us. At the same time, Casimir's behavior — combining as it
does a general attitude of unprincipled, cold-blooded calculation with
outbursts of almost inexplicably vindictive cruelty — seems, like that of
Cortes's angry foot soldiers when unleashed on the Aztec provinces, to
embody something essential about the psychology of debt. Or, more
precisely, perhaps, about the debtor who feels he has done nothing to
deserve being placed in his position: the frantic urgency of having to
convert everything around oneself into money, and rage and indigna-
tion at having been reduced to the sort of person who would do so.

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Part II:

The World of Credit and the World of Interest

Of all the beings that have existence
only in the minds of men, nothing is
more fantastical and nice than Credit;
it is never to be forced; it hangs upon
opinion; it depends upon our passions
of hope and fear; it comes many times
unsought-f or, and often goes away
without reason; and once lost, it is
hardly to be quite recovered.

— Charles Davenant, 1696

He that has lost his credit is dead to
the world.

— English and German Proverb

The peasants' visions of communistic brotherhood did not come out
of nowhere. They were rooted in real daily experience: of the main-
tenance of common fields and forests, of everyday cooperation and
neighborly solidarity. It is out of such homely experience of everyday
communism that grand mythic visions are always built.38 Obviously,
rural communities were also divided, squabbling places, since com-
munities always are — but insofar as they are communities at all, they
are necessarily founded on a ground of mutual aid. The same, inci-
dentally, can be said of members of the aristocracy, who might have
fought endlessly over love, land, honor, and religion, but nonetheless
still cooperated remarkably well with one another when it really mat-
tered (most of all, when their position as aristocrats was threatened);
just as the merchants and bankers, much as they competed with one
another, managed to close ranks when it really mattered. This is what
I refer to as the "communism of the rich," and it is a powerful force in
human history.39

The same, as we've seen repeatedly, applies to credit. There are
always different standards for those one considers friends or neighbors.
The inexorable nature of interest-bearing debt, and the alternately sav-
age and calculating behavior of those enslaved to it, are typical above
all of dealings between strangers: it's unlikely that Casimir felt much
more kinship with his peasants than Cortes did with the Aztecs (in

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327

fact, most likely less, since Aztec warriors were at least aristocrats).
Inside the small towns and rural hamlets, where the state was mostly
far away, Medieval standards survived intact, and "credit" was just as
much a matter of honor and reputation as it had ever been. The great
untold story of our current age is of how these ancient credit systems
were ultimately destroyed.

Recent historical research, notably that of Craig Muldrew, who has
sifted through thousands of inventories and court cases from sixteenth-
and seventeenth-century England, has caused us to revise almost all our
old assumptions about what everyday economic life at that time was
like. Of course, very little of the American gold and silver that reached
Europe actually ended up in the pockets of ordinary farmers, mercers,
or haberdashers.40 The lion's share stayed in the coffers of either the ar-
istocracy or the great London merchants, or else in the royal treasury.41
Small change was almost nonexistent. As I've already pointed out, in
the poorer neighborhoods of cities or large towns, shopkeepers would
issue their own lead, leather, or wooden token money; in the sixteenth
century this became something of a fad, with artisans and even poor
widows producing their own currency as a way to make ends meet.42
Elsewhere, those frequenting the local butcher, baker, or shoemaker
would simply put things on the tab. The same was true of those attend-
ing weekly markets, or selling neighbors milk or cheese or candle-wax.
In a typical village, the only people likely to pay cash were passing
travelers, and those considered riff-raff: paupers and ne'er-do-wells so
notoriously down on their luck that no one would extend credit to
them. Since everyone was involved in selling something, however just
about everyone was both creditor and debtor; most family income took
the form of promises from other families; everyone knew and kept
count of what their neighbors owed one another; and every six months
or year or so, communities would held a general public "reckoning,"
cancelling debts out against each other in a great circle, with only those
differences then remaining when all was done being settled by use of
coin or goods.43

The reason that this upends our assumptions is that we're used
to blaming the rise of capitalism on something vaguely called "the
market" — the breakup of older systems of mutual aid and solidarity,
and the creation of a world of cold calculation, where everything had
its price. Really, English villagers appear to have seen no contradiction
between the two. On the one hand, they believed strongly in the col-
lective stewardship of fields, streams, and forests, and the need to help
neighbors in difficulty. On the other hand, markets were seen as a kind
of attenuated version of the same principle, since they were entirely

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founded on trust. Much like the Tiv women with their gifts of yams
and okra, neighbors assumed they ought to be constantly slightly in
debt to one another. At the same time, most seem to have been quite
comfortable with the idea of buying and selling, or even with market
fluctuations, provided it didn't get to the point of threatening honest
families' livelihoods.44 Even when loans at interest began to be legalized
in 1545, that did not ruffle too many feathers, as long as it took place
within that same larger moral framework: lending was considered an
appropriate vocation, for example, for widows with no other source
of income, or as a way for neighbors to share in the profits from
some minor commercial venture. William Stout, a Quaker merchant
from Lancashire, spoke glowingly of Henry Coward, the tradesman in
whose shop he first apprenticed:

My master then had a full trade of groceries, ironmongerware,
and several other goods, and very much respected and trusted,
not only by the people of his own religious profession, but by
all others of all professions and circumstances . . . His credit
was so much, that any who had money to dispose of lodged it
with him to put out to interest or to make use of it.45

In this world, trust was everything. Most money literally was trust,
since most credit arrangements were handshake deals. When people
used the word "credit," they referred above all to a reputation for hon-
esty and integrity; and a man or woman's honor, virtue, and respect-
ability, but also, reputation for generosity, decency, and good-natured
sociability, were at least as important considerations when deciding
whether to make a loan as were assessments of net income.46 As a
result, financial terms became indistinguishable from moral ones. One
could speak of others as "worthies," as "a woman of high estimation"
or "a man of no account," and equally of "giving credit" to someone's
words when one believes what they say ("credit" is from the same root
as "creed" or "credibility"), or of "extending credit" to them, when one
takes them at their word that they will pay one back.

One should not idealize the situation. This was a highly patriar-
chal world: a man's wife or daughter's reputation for chastity was as
much a part of his "credit" as his own reputation for kindness or piety.
What's more, almost all people below the age of 30, male or female,
were employed as servants in someone else's household — as farmhands,
milkmaids, apprentices — and as such, were of "no account" at all.47 Fi-
nally, those who lost credibility in the eyes of the community became,
effectively, pariahs, and descended into the criminal or semi-criminal

AGE OF THE GREAT CAPITALIST EMPIRES

329

classes of rootless laborers, beggars, harlots, cutpurses, hawkers, ped-
lars, fortune-tellers, minstrels, and other such "masterless men" or
"women of ill repute."48

Cold cash was employed largely between strangers, or when pay-
ing rents, tithes, and taxes to landlords, bailiffs, priests, and other
superiors. The landed gentry and wealthy merchants, who eschewed
handshake deals, would often use cash with one another, especially
to pay off bills of exchange drawn on London markets.49 Above all,
gold and silver were used by the government to purchase arms and
pay soldiers, and amongst the criminal classes themselves. This meant
that coins were most likely to be used both by the sort of people who
ran the legal system — the magistrates, constables, and justices of the
peace — and by those violent elements of society they saw it as their
business to control.

Over time, this led to an increasing disjuncture of moral universes.
For most, who tried to avoid entanglement in the legal system just as
much as they tried to avoid the affairs of soldiers and criminals, debt
remained the very fabric of sociability. But those who spent their work-
ing lives within the halls of government and great commercial houses
gradually began to develop a very different perspective, whereby cash
exchange was normal and it was debt that came to be seen as tinged
with criminality.

Each perspective turned on a certain tacit theory of the nature of
society. For most English villagers, the real font and focus of social
and moral life was not so much the church as the local ale-house — and
community was embodied above all in the conviviality of popular festi-
vals like Christmas or May Day, with everything that such celebrations
entailed: the sharing of pleasures, the communion of the senses, all the
physical embodiment of what was called "good neighborhood." Society
was rooted above in the "love and amity" of friends and kin, and it
found expression in all those forms of everyday communism (helping
neighbors with chores, providing milk or cheese for old widows) that
were seen to flow from it. Markets were not seen as contradicting this
ethos of mutual aid. It was, much as it was for Tusi, an extension of
mutual aid — and for much the same reason: because it operated en-
tirely through trust and credit.50

England might not have produced a great theorist like Tusi, but
one can find the same assumptions echoed in most of the Scholastic
writers, as for instance in Jean Bodin's De Republica, widely circulated

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in English translation after 1605. "Amity and friendship," Bodin wrote,
"are the foundation of all human and civil society" — they constitute
that "true, natural justice" on which the whole legal structure of con-
tracts, courts, and even government must necessarily be built.51 Similar-
ly, when economic thinkers reflected on the origins of the money, they
spoke of "trusting, exchanging, and trading."52 It was simply assumed
that human relations came first.

As a result, all moral relations came to be conceived as debts. "For-
give us our debts" — this was the period, the very end of the Middle
Ages, that this translation of the Lord's Prayer gained such universal
popularity. Sins are debts to God: unavoidable, but perhaps manage-
able, since at the end of time our moral debts and credits will be all
canceled out against each other in God's final Reckoning. The notion
of debt inserted itself into even the most intimate of human relations.
Like the Tiv, Medieval villagers would sometimes refer to "flesh debts,"
but the notion was completely different: it referred to the right of either
partner in a marriage to demand sex from the other, which in principle
either could do whenever he or she desired. The phrase "paying one's
debts" thus developed connotations, much as the Roman phrase "doing
one's duty" had, centuries before. Geoffrey Chaucer even makes a pun
out of "tally" (French: taille) and "tail" in the Shipman's Tale, a story
about a woman who pays her husband's debts with sexual favors: "and
if so I be faille, I am youre wyf, score it upon my taille."53

Even London merchants would occasionally appeal to the language
of sociability, insisting that in the final analysis, all trade is built on
credit, and credit is really just an extension of mutual aid. In 1696, for
instance, Charles Davenant wrote that even if there were a general col-
lapse of confidence in the credit system, it could not last long, because
eventually, when people reflected on the matter and realized that credit
is simply an extension of human society,

They will find, that no trading nation ever did subsist, and
carry on its business by real stock [that is, just coin and mer-
chandise]; that trust and confidence in each other, are as nec-
essary to link and hold a people together, as obedience, love,
friendship, or the intercourse of speech. And when experience
has taught man how weak he is, depending only on himself,
he will be willing to help others, and call upon the assistance
of his neighbors, which of course, by degrees, must set credit
again afloat.54

AGE OF THE GREAT CAPITALIST EMPIRES

331

Davenant was an unusual merchant (his father was a poet). More
typical of his class were men like Thomas Hobbes, whose Leviathan,
published in 1651, was in many ways an extended attack on the very idea
that society is built on any sort of prior ties of communal solidarity.

Hobbes might be considered the opening salvo of the new moral
perspective, and it was a devastating one. When Leviathan came out,
it's not clear what scandalized its readers more: its relentless materi-
alism (Hobbes insisted that humans were basically machines whose
actions could be understood by one single principle: that they tended
to move toward the prospect of pleasure and away from the prospect
of pain), or its resultant cynicism (if love, amity, and trust are such
powerful forces, Hobbes asked, why is it that even within our families,
we lock our most valuable possessions in strongboxes?) Still, Hobbes'
ultimate argument — that humans, being driven by self-interest, cannot
be trusted to treat each other justly of their own accord, and therefore
that society only emerges when they come to realize that it is to their
long-term advantage to give up a portion of their liberties and accept
the absolute power of the King — differed little from arguments that
theologians like Martin Luther had been making a century earlier.
Hobbes simply substituted scientific language for biblical references."

I want to draw particular attention to the underlying notion of
"self-interest."56 It is in a real sense the key to the new philosophy.
The term first appears in English right around Hobbes' time, and it
is, indeed, directly borrowed from interesse, the Roman law term for
interest payments. When it was first introduced, most English authors
seemed to view the idea that all human life can be explained as the pur-
suit of self-interest as a cynical, foreign, Machiavellian idea, one that
sat uncomfortably with traditional English mores. By the eighteenth
century, most in educated society accepted it as simple common sense.

But why "interest"? Why make a general theory of human motiva-
tion out of a word that originally meant "penalty for late payment on
a loan"?

Part of the term's appeal was that it derived from bookkeeping. It
was mathematical. This made it seem objective, even scientific. Saying
we are all really pursuing our own self-interest provides a way to cut
past the welter of passions and emotions that seem to govern our daily
existence, and to motivate most of what we actually observe people
to do (not only out of love and amity, but also envy, spite, devotion,
pity, lust, embarrassment, torpor, indignation, and pride) and discover
that, despite all this, most really important decisions are based on the
rational calculation of material advantage — which means that they are
fairly predictable as well. "Just as the physical world is ruled by the

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laws of movement," wrote Helvetius, in a passage reminiscent of Lord
Shang, "no less is the moral universe ruled by laws of interest."57 And
of course it was on this assumption that all the quadratic equations of
economic theory could ultimately be built.'58

The problem is that the origin of the concept is not rational at all.
Its roots are theological, and the theological assumptions underpinning
it never really went away. "Self-interest" is first attested to in the writ-
ings of the Italian historian Francesco Guicciadini (who was, in fact, a
friend of Machiavelli), around 1510, as a euphemism for St. Augustine's
concept of "self-love." For Augustine, the "love of God" leads us to
benevolence toward our fellows; self-love, in contrast, refers to the fact
that, since the Fall of Man, we are cursed by endless, insatiable desires
for self-gratification — so much so that, if left to our own devices, we
will necessarily fall into universal competition, even war. Substituting
"interest" for "love" must have seemed an obvious move, since the as-
sumption that love is the primary emotion was precisely what authors
like Guicciadini were trying to get away from. But it kept that same
assumption of insatiable desires under the guise of impersonal math,
since what is "interest" but the demand that money never cease to
grow? The same was true when it became the term for investments —
"I have a twelve-percent interest in that venture" — it is money placed
in the continual pursuit of profit.59 The very idea that human beings
are motivated primarily by "self-interest," then, was rooted in the pro-
foundly Christian assumption that we are all incorrigible sinners; left to
our own devices, we will not simply pursue a certain level of comfort
and happiness and then stop to enjoy it; we will never cash in the chips,
like Sindbad, let alone question why we need to buy chips to begin
with. And as Augustine already anticipated, infinite desires in a finite
world means endless competition, which in turn is why, as Hobbes
insisted, our only hope of social peace lies in contractual arrangements
and strict enforcement by the apparatus of the state.

The story of the origins of capitalism, then, is not the story of the
gradual destruction of traditional communities by the impersonal pow-
er of the market. It is, rather, the story of how an economy of credit
was converted into an economy of interest; of the gradual transforma-
tion of moral networks by the intrusion of the impersonal — and often
vindictive — power of the state. English villagers in Elizabethan or Stu-
art times did not like to appeal to the justice system, even when the
law was in their favor — partly on the principle that neighbors should

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333

work things out with one another, but mainly, because the law was so
extraordinarily harsh. Under Elizabeth, for example, the punishment
for vagrancy (unemployment) was, for first offense, to have one's ears
nailed to a pillory; for repeat offenders, death.60

The same was true of debt law, especially since debts could often,
if the creditor was sufficiently vindictive, be treated as a crime. In Chel-
sea around 1660,

Margaret Sharpies was prosecuted for stealing cloth, "which
she had converted into a petticoat for her own wearing," from
Richard Bennett's shop. Her defense was that she had bar-
gained with Bennett's servant for the cloth, "but having not
money sufficient in her purse to pay for it, took it away with
purpose to pay for it so soon as she could: and that she after-
wards agreed with Mr Bennett of a price for it." Bennett con-
firmed that this was so: after agreeing to pay him 22 shillings,
Margaret "delivered a hamper with goods in it as a pawn for
security of the money, and four shillings ninepence in mon-
ey." But "soon after he disliked upon better consideration to
hold agreement with her: and delivered the hamper and goods
back," and commenced formal legal proceedings against her.61

As a result, Margaret Sharpies was hanged.

Obviously, it was the rare shopkeeper who wished to see even his
most irritating client on the gallows. Therefore decent people tended
to avoid the courts entirely. One of the most interesting discoveries of
Craig Muldrew's research is that the more time passed, the less true
this became.

Even in the late Middle Ages, in the case of really large loans,
it was not unusual for creditors to lodge claims in local courts — but
this was really just a way of ensuring that there was a public record
(remember that most people at the time were illiterate). Debtors were
willing to go along with the proceedings in part, it would seem, because
if there was any interest being charged, it meant that if they did default,
the lender was just as guilty in the eyes of the law as they were. Less
than one-percent of these cases were ever brought to judgment.62 The
legalization of interest began to change the nature of the playing field.
In the 1580s, when interest-bearing loans began to become common
between villagers, creditors also began to insist on the use of signed,
legal bonds; this led to such an explosion of appeals to the courts that
in many small towns, almost every household seemed to be caught up
in debt litigation of some sort or other. Only a tiny proportion of these

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suits were ever brought to judgment, either: the usual expedient was
still to rely on the simple threat of punishment to encourage debtors
to settle out of court.6' Still, as a result, the fear of debtor's prison — or
worse — came to hang over everyone, and sociability itself came to take
on the color of crime. Even Mr. Coward, the kindly shopkeeper, was
eventually laid low. His good credit itself became a problem, especially
as he felt honor-bound to use it to help the less fortunate:

He also dealt in merchandise with loose partners, and became
concerned much with persons of declining circumstances, where
neither profit nor credit could be got; and he gave uneasiness to
his wife, by his frequenting some houses of no good character.
And she was a very indolent woman, and drew money pri-
vately from him, and his circumstances became so burdensome
that he daily expected to be made a prisoner. Which, with the
shame of forfeiting his former reputation, it drew him into de-
spair and broke his heart, so that he kept to his house for some
time and died of grief and shame.64

It is perhaps not surprising, when one consults contemporary sourc-
es about what those prisons were like, particularly for those who were
not of aristocratic origins. Mr. Coward would surely have known, as
the conditions at the most notorious, like Fleet and Marshalsea, caused
periodic scandals when exposed in parliament or the popular press, fill-
ing the papers with stories of shackled debtors "covered with filth and
vermin, and suffered to die, without pity, of hunger and jail fever," as
the aristocratic roues placed in the elite side of the same jails lived lives
of comfort, visited by manicurists and prostitutes.65

The criminalization of debt, then, was the criminalization of the
very basis of human society. It cannot be overemphasized that in a
small community, everyone normally was both lender and borrower.
One can only imagine the tensions and temptations that must have
existed in a communities — and communities, much though they are
based on love, in fact, because they are based on love, will always also
be full of hatred, rivalry and passion — when it became clear that with
sufficiently clever scheming, manipulation, and perhaps a bit of strate-
gic bribery, they could arrange to have almost anyone they hated im-
prisoned or even hanged. What was it that Richard Bennett really had
against Margaret Sharpies? We'll never know the back-story, but it's a
pretty safe bet that there was one. The effects on communal solidarity
must have been devastating. The sudden accessibility of violence really
did threaten to transform what had been the essence of sociality into a

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335

war of all against all.66 It's not surprising then, that by the eighteenth
century, the very notion of personal credit had acquired a bad name,
with both lenders and borrowers considered equally suspect.67 The use
of coins — at least among those who had access to them — had come to
seem moral in itself.

Understanding all this allows us to see some of the European authors
considered in earlier chapters in an entirely new light. Take Panurge's
encomium on debt: it turns out that the real joke is not the suggestion
that debt ties communities together (any English or French peasant of
the day would have simply assumed this), or even that only debt ties
communities together; it is putting the sentiment in the mouth of a
wealthy scholar who's really an inveterate criminal — that is, holding
up popular morality as a mirror to make fun of the very upper classes
who claimed to disapprove of it.
Or consider Adam Smith:

It is not from the benevolence of the butcher, the brewer, or the
baker, that we expect our dinner, but from their regard to their
own interest. We address ourselves, not to their humanity but
to their self-love, and never talk to them of our own necessities
but of their advantages.68

The bizarre thing here is that, at the time Smith was writing, this
simply wasn't true.69 Most English shopkeepers were still carrying out
the main part of their business on credit, which meant that customers
appealed to their benevolence all the time. Smith could hardly have
been unaware of this. Rather, he is drawing a Utopian picture. He
wants to imagine a world in,which everyone used cash, in part because
he agreed with the emerging middle-class opinion that the world would
be a better place if everyone really did conduct themselves this way,
and avoid confusing and potentially corrupting ongoing entanglements.
We should all just pay the money, say "please" and "thank you," and
leave the store. What's more, he uses this Utopian image to make a
larger point: that even if all businesses operated like the great commer-
cial companies, with an eye only to self-interest, it wouldn't matter.
Even the "natural selfishness and rapacity" of the rich, with all their
"vain and insatiable desires" will still, through the logic of the invisible
hand, lead to the benefit of all.70

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In other words, Smith simply imagined the role of consumer credit
in his own day, just as he had his account of the origins of money.71
This allowed him to ignore the role of both benevolence and malevo-
lence in economic affairs; both the ethos of mutual aid that forms the
necessary foundation of anything that would look like a free market
(that is, one which is not simply created and maintained by the state),
and the violence and sheer vindictiveness that had actually gone into
creating the competitive, self-interested markets that he was using as
his model.

Nietzsche, in turn, was taking up Smith's premises, that life is
exchange, but laying bare everything (the torture, murder, mutilation)
that Smith preferred not to have to talk about. Now that we have seen
just a little of the social context, it's difficult to read Nietzsche's oth-
erwise puzzling descriptions of ancient hunters and herdsmen keeping
accounts of debts and demanding each others' eyes and fingers without
immediately thinking of Casimir's executioner, who actually did pres-
ent his master with a bill for gouged eyes and severed fingers. What he
is really describing is what it took to produce a world in which the son
of a prosperous middle-class reverend, such as himself, could simply
assume that all human life is premised on calculated, self-interested
exchange.

Part III:

Impersonal Credit-money

One reason that historians took so long to notice the elaborate popular-
credit systems of Tudor and Stuart England is that intellectuals of the
time spoke about money in the abstract; they rarely mentioned it. For
the educated classes, "money" soon came to mean gold and silver.
Most wrote as if it could be taken for granted that gold and silver had
always been used as money for all nations in history and, presumably,
always would be.

This not only flew in the face of Aristotle; it directly contradicted
the discoveries of European explorers of the time, who were finding
shell money, bead money, feather money, salt money, and an endless
variety of other currencies everywhere they went.72 Yet all this just
caused economic thinkers to dig in their heels. Some appealed to al-
chemy to argue that the monetary status of gold and silver had a natu-
ral basis: gold (which partook of the sun) and silver (which partook
of the moon) were the perfected, eternal forms of metal toward which

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337

all baser metals tend to evolve.7' Most, however, didn't feel that much
explanation was required; the intrinsic value of precious metals was
simply self-evident. As a result, when royal advisors or London pam-
phleteers discussed economic problems, the issues they debated were
always the same: How do we keep bullion from leaving the country?
What do we do about the crippling shortage of coin? For most, ques-
tions like "How do we maintain trust in local credit systems?" simply
did not arise.

This was even more extreme in Britain than on the Continent,
where "crying up" or "crying down" the currency was still an option.
In Britain, after a disastrous attempt at devaluation under the Tudors,
such expedients were abandoned. Henceforth, debasement became a
moral issue. For the government to mix base metal into the pure eter-
nal substance of a coin was clearly wrong. So, to a lesser extent, was
coin-clipping, a near-universal practice in England, which might be
thought of as a kind of popular version of devaluation, since it involved
secretly shaving silver off the edges of coins and then pressing them
down so they seemed like they were still the original size.

What's more, those new forms of virtual money that began to
emerge in the new age were firmly rooted in these same assumptions.
This is critical, because it helps explain what might otherwise seem a
bizarre contradiction: How is it that this age of ruthless materialism, in
which the notion that money was a social convention was definitively
rejected, also saw the rise of paper money, along with a whole host
of new credit instruments and forms of financial abstraction that have
become so typical of modern capitalism? True, most of these — checks,
bonds, stocks, annuities — had their origins in the metaphysical world
of the Middle Ages. Yet in this new age, they underwent an enormous
efflorescence.

If one looks at the actual history, though, it quickly becomes clear
that all of these new forms of money in no way undermined the as-
sumption that money was founded on the "intrinsic" value of gold and
silver: in fact, they reinforced it. What seems to have happened is that,
once credit became unlatched from real relations of trust between indi-
viduals (whether merchants or villagers), it became apparent that mon-
ey could, in effect, be produced simply by saying it was there; but that,
when this is done in the amoral world of a competitive marketplace, it
would almost inevitably lead to scams and confidence games of every
sort — causing the guardians of the system to periodically panic, and
seek new ways to latch the value of the various forms of paper back
onto gold and silver.

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This is the story normally told as "the origins of modern bank-
ing." From our perspective, though, what it reveals is just how closely
bound together war, bullion, and these new credit instruments were.
One need only consider the paths not traveled. For instance: there was
no intrinsic reason why a bill of exchange couldn't be endorsed over
to a third party, then become generally transferable — thus, in effect
turning it into a form of paper money. This is how paper money first
emerged in China. In Medieval Europe there were periodic movements
in that direction, but for a variety of reasons, they did not go far.74 Al-
ternately, bankers can produce money by issuing book credits for more
than they have on cash reserve. This is considered the very essence of
modern banking, and it can lead to the circulation of private bank
notes.75 Some moves were made in this direction as well, especially in
Italy, but it was a risky proposition, since there was always the danger
of depositors panicking and making a run, and most Medieval govern-
ments threatened extremely harsh penalties on bankers unable to make
restitution in such cases: as witnessed by the example of Francesch
Castello, beheaded in front of his own bank in Barcelona in 1360.76

Where bankers effectively controlled Medieval governments, it
proved safer and more profitable to manipulate the government's own
finances. The history of modern financial instruments, and the ultimate
origins of paper money, really begin with the issuing of municipal
bonds — a practice begun by the Venetian government in the twelfth
century when, needing a quick infusion of income for military pur-
poses, it levied a compulsory loan on its taxpaying citizens, for which
it promised each of them five percent annual interest, and allowed the
"bonds" or contracts to become negotiable, thus, creating a market in
government debt. They [the Venetian government?] tended to be quite
meticulous about interest payments, but since the bonds had no specific
date of maturity, their market prices often fluctuated wildly with the
city's political and military fortunes, and so did resulting assessments
of the likelihood that they would be able to be repaid. Similar practices
quickly spread to the other Italian states and to northern European
merchant enclaves as well: the United Provinces of Holland financed
their long war of independence against the Hapsburgs (1568-1648)
largely through a series of forced loans, though they floated numerous
voluntary bond issues as well.77

Forcing taxpayers to make a loan is, in one sense, simply demand-
ing that they pay their taxes early; but when the Venetian state first
agreed to pay interest — and in legal terms, this was again interesse, a
penalty for late payment — it was in principle penalizing itself for not
immediately giving the money back. It's easy to see how this might

AGE OF THE GREAT CAPITALIST EMPIRES

339

raise all sorts of questions about the legal and moral relation between
people and government. Ultimately, the commercial classes in those
mercantile republics that pioneered these new forms of financing did
end up seeing themselves as owning the government more than they
saw themselves as being in its debt. Not only the commercial classes:
by 1650, a majority of Dutch households held at least a little govern-
ment debt.78 However, the true paradox only appears when one begins
to "monetize" this debt — that is, to take government promises to pay
and allow them to circulate as currency.

While already by the sixteenth century, merchants were using bills
of exchange to settle debts, government debt bonds — rentes, juros,
annuities — were the real credit money of the new age. It's here that we
have to look for the real origins of the "price revolution" that ham-
mered once-independent townsfolk and villagers into the ground and
opened the way for most of them to ultimately be reduced to wage
laborers, working for those who had access to these higher forms of
credit. Even in Seville, where the treasure fleets from the New World
first touched port in the Old, bullion was not much used in day-to-day
transactions. Most of it was taken directly to the warehouses of Geno-
ese bankers operating from the port and stored for shipment east. But
in the process, it became the basis for complex credit schemes whereby
the value of the bullion was loaned to the emperor to fund military op-
erations, in exchange for papers entitling the bearer to interest-bearing
annuities from the government — papers that could in turn be traded
as if they were money. By such means, bankers could almost end-
lessly multiply the actual value of gold and silver they held. Already in
the 1570s, we hear of fairs in places like Medina del Campo, not far
from Seville, that had become "veritable factories of certificates," with
transactions carried out exclusively through paper.79 Since whether the
Spanish government would actually pay their debts, or how regularly,
were always slightly uncertain, the bills would tend to circulate at a
discount — especially as juros began circulating throughout the rest of
Europe — causing continual inflation.80

It was only with the creation of the Bank of England in 1694 that
one can speak of genuine paper money, since its banknotes were in no
sense bonds. They were rooted, like all the others, in the king's war
debts. This can't be emphasized enough. The fact that money was no
longer a debt owed to the king, but a debt owed by the king, made it
very different than what it had been before. In many ways it had be-
come a mirror image of older forms of money.

The reader will recall that the Bank of England was created when a
consortium of forty London and Edinburgh merchants — mostly already

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creditors to the crown — offered King William III a £1.2 million loan to
help finance his war against France. In doing so, they also convinced
him to allow them in return to form a corporation with a monopoly
on the issuance of banknotes — which were, in effect, promissory notes
for the money the king now owed them. This was the first independent
national central bank, and it became the clearinghouse for debts owed
between smaller banks; the notes soon developed into the first Euro-
pean national paper currency. Yet the great public debate of the time, a
debate about the very nature of money, was about not paper but metal.
The 1690s were a time of crisis for British coinage. The value of silver
had risen so high that new British coins (the mint had recently devel-
oped the "milled edge" familiar from coins nowadays, which made
them clip-proof) were actually worth less than their silver content, with
predictable results. Proper silver coins vanished; all that remained in
circulation were the old clipped ones, and these were becoming increas-
ingly scarce. Something had to be done. A war of pamphlets ensued,
which came to a head in 1695, one year after the founding of the bank.
Charles Davenant's essay on credit, which I've already cited, was ac-
tually part of this particular pamphlet-war: he proposed that Britain
move to a pure credit money based on public trust, and he was ignored.
The Treasury proposed to call in the coinage and reissue it at a 20- to
25-percent lower weight, so as to bring it back below the market price
for silver. Many who supported this position took explicitly Chartalist
positions, insisting that silver has no intrinsic value anyway, and that
money is simply a measure established by the state.8' The man who
won the argument, however, was John Locke, the Liberal philosopher,
at that time acting as advisor to Sir Isaac Newton, then Warden of the
Mint. Locke insisted that one can no more make a small piece of silver
worth more by relabeling it a "shilling" than one can make a short
man taller by declaring there are now fifteen inches in a foot. Gold and
silver had a value recognized by everyone on earth; the government
stamp simply attested to the weight and purity of a coin, and — as he
added in words veritably shivering with indignation — for governments
to tamper with this for their own advantage was just as criminal as the
coin-clippers themselves:

The use and end of the public stamp is only to be a guard and
voucher of the quality of silver which men contract for; and the
injury done to the public faith, in this point, is that which in
clipping and false coining heightens the robbery into treason.*1

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341

Therefore, he argued, the only recourse was to recall the currency
and restrike it at exactly the same value that it had before.

This was done, and the results were disastrous. In the years im-
mediately following, there was almost no coinage in circulation; prices
and wages collapsed; there was hunger and unrest. Only the wealthy
were insulated, since they were able to take advantage of the new credit
money, trading back and forth portions of the king's debt in the form
of banknotes. The value of these notes, too, fluctuated a bit at first,
but eventually stabilized once they were made redeemable in precious
metals. For the rest, the situation only really improved once paper
money, and, eventually, smaller-denomination currency, became more
widely available. The reforms proceeded top-down, and very slowly,
but they did proceed, and they gradually came to create the world
where even ordinary, everyday transactions with butchers and bakers
were carried out in polite, impersonal terms, with small change, and
therefore it became possible to imagine everyday life itself as a matter
of self-interested calculation.

It's easy enough to see why Locke would adopt the position that he
did. He was a scientific materialist. For him, "faith" in government —
as in the quote above — was not the citizens' belief that the govern-
ment will keep its promises, but simply that it won't lie to them; that
it would, like a good scientist, give them accurate information, and
who wanted to see human behavior as founded in natural laws that —
like the laws of physics that Newton had so recently described — were
higher than those of any mere government. The real question is why
the British government agreed with him and resolutely stuck to this
position despite all the immediate disasters. Soon afterward, in fact,
Britain adopted the gold standard (in 1717) and the British Empire
maintained it, and with it the notion that gold and silver were money,
down to its final days.

True, Locke's materialism also came to be broadly accepted — even
to be the watchword of the age.83 Mainly, though, the reliance on gold
and silver seemed to provide the only check on the dangers involved
with the new forms of credit-money, which multiplied very quickly —
especially once ordinary banks were allowed to create money too. It
soon became apparent that financial speculation, unmoored from any
legal or community constraints, was capable of producing results that
seemed to verge on insanity. The Dutch Republic, which pioneered
the development of stock markets, had already experienced this in
the tulip mania of 1637 — the first of a series of speculative "bubbles,"
as they came to be known, in which future prices would first be bid
through the ceiling by investors and then collapse. A whole series of

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such bubbles hit the London markets in the 1690s, in almost every
case built around a new joint-stock corporation formed, in imitation
of the East India Company, around some prospective colonial venture.
The famous South Sea Bubble in 1720 — in which a newly formed trad-
ing company, granted a monopoly of trade with the Spanish colonies,
bought up a considerable portion of the British national debt and saw
its shares briefly skyrocket before collapsing in ignominy — was only
the culmination. Its collapse was followed the next year by the collapse
of John Law's famous Banque Royale in France, another central-bank
experiment — similar to the Bank of England — that grew so quickly
that within a few years it had absorbed all the French colonial trading
companies, and most of the French crown's own debt, issuing its own
paper money, before crashing into nothingness in 1721, sending its chief
executive fleeing for his life. In each case, this was followed by legisla-
tion: in Britain, to forbid the creation of new joint-stock companies
(other than for the building of turnpikes and canals), and in France, to
eliminate paper money based in government debt entirely.

It's unsurprising, then, that Newtonian economics (if we may call
it that) — the assumption that one cannot simply create money, or even,
really, tinker with it — came to be accepted by almost everyone. There
had to be some solid, material foundation to all this, or the entire sys-
tem would go insane. True, economists were to spend centuries arguing
about what that foundation might be (was it really gold, or was it land,
human labor, the utility or desirability of commodities in general?) but
almost no one returned to anything like the Aristotelian view.

Another way to look at this might be to say that the new age came
to be increasingly uncomfortable with the political nature of money.
Politics, after all, is the art of persuasion; the political is that dimension
of social life in which things really do become true if enough people
believe them. The problem is that in order to play the game effectively,
one can never acknowledge this: it may be true that, if I could con-
vince everyone in the world that I was the King of France, I would in
fact become the King of France; but it would never work if I were to
admit that this was the only basis of my claim. In this sense, politics
is very similar to magic — one reason both politics and magic tend, just
about everywhere, to be surrounded by a certain halo of fraud. These
suspicions were widely vaunted at the time. In 1711, the satirical essayist
Joseph Addison penned a little fantasy about the Bank of England's —
and as a result, the British monetary system's — dependence on public

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343

faith in the political stability of the throne. (The Act of Settlement of
1701 was the bill that guaranteed the royal succession, and a sponge
was a popular symbol for default). In a dream, he said,

I saw Public Credit, set on her throne in the Grocer's Hall, the
Great Charter over her head, the Act of Settlement full in her
view. Her touch turned everything to gold. Behind her seat,
bags filled with coin were piled up to the ceiling. On her right
the door flies open. The Pretender rushes in, a sponge in one
hand, and in the other a sword, which he shakes at the Act of
Settlement. The beautiful Queen sinks down fainting. The spell
by which she has turned all things around her into treasure
is broken. The money bags shrink like pricked bladders. The
piles of gold pieces are turned into bundles of rags or faggots
of wooden tallies.84

If one does not believe in the king, then the money vanishes
with him.

Thus kings, magicians, markets, and alchemists all fused in the
public imagination during this era, and we still talk about the "alche-
my" of the market, or "financial magicians." In Goethe's Faust (1808),
he actually has his hero — in his capacity as alchemist-magician — pay a
visit to the Holy Roman Emperor. The Emperor is sinking under the
weight of endless debts that he has piled up paying for the extravagant
pleasures of his court. Faust, and his assistant, Mephistopheles, con-
vince him that he can pay off his creditors by creating paper money.
It's represented as an act of pure prestidigitation. "You have plenty of
gold lying somewhere underneath your lands," notes Faust. "Just issue
notes promising your creditors you'll give it to them later. Since no one
knows how much gold there really is, there's no limit to how much
you can promise."85

This kind of magical language almost never appears in the Middle
Ages.86 It would appear that it's only in a resolutely materialist age
that this ability to simply produce things by saying that they are there
comes to be seen as a scandalous, even diabolical. And the surest sign
that one has entered such a materialist age is precisely the fact that it
is seen so. We have already observed Rabelais, at the very beginning
of the age, reverting to language almost identical to that used by Plu-
tarch when he railed against moneylenders in Roman times — "laughing
at those natural philosophers who hold that nothing can be made of
nothing," as they manipulate their books and ledgers to demand back
money they never actually had. Panurge just turned it around: no, it's

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by borrowing that I make something out of nothing, and become a
kind of god.

But consider the following lines, often attributed to Lord Josiah
Charles Stamp, director of the Bank of England:

The modern banking system manufactures money out of noth-
ing. The process is perhaps the most astounding piece of sleight
of hand that was ever invented. Banking was conceived in in-
iquity and born in sin. Bankers own the earth; take it away
from them, but leave them with the power to create credit, and
with the stroke of a pen they will create enough money to buy
it back again ... If you wish to remain slaves of Bankers, and
pay the cost of your own slavery, let them continue to create
deposits.87

It seems extremely unlikely that Lord Stamp ever really said this, but
the passage has been cited endlessly — in fact, it's probably the sin-
gle most often-quoted passage by critics of the modern banking sys-
tem. However apocryphal, it clearly strikes a chord, and apparently
for the same reason: bankers are creating something out of nothing.
They are not only frauds and magicians. They are evil, because they're
playing God.

But there's a deeper scandal than mere prestidigitation. If Medieval
moralists did not raise such objections, it was not just because they
were comfortable with metaphysical entities. They had a much more
fundamental problem with the market: greed. Market motives were
held to be inherently corrupt. The moment that greed was validated,
and unlimited profit was considered a perfectly viable end in itself, this
political, magical element became a genuine problem, because it meant
that even those actors — the brokers, stock-jobbers, traders — who ef-
fectively made the system run had no convincing loyalty to anything,
even to the system itself.

Hobbes, who first developed this vision of human nature into an
explicit theory of society, was well aware of this greed dilemma. It
formed the basis of his political philosophy. Even, he argued, if we are
all rational enough to understand that it's in our long-term interest to
live in peace and security, our short-term interests are often such that
killing and plundering are the most obviously profitable courses to
take, and all it takes is a few to cast aside their scruples to create utter
insecurity and chaos. This was why he felt that markets could only ex-
ist under the aegis of an absolutist state, which would force us to keep
our promises and respect one another's property. But what happens

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345

when we're talking about a market in which it is state debts and state
obligations themselves that are being traded; when one cannot really
speak of a state monopoly on force because one is operating in an in-
ternational market where the primary currency is bonds that the state
depends on for its very ability to marshal military force?

Having made incessant war on all remaining forms of the commu-
nism of the poor, even to the point of criminalizing credit, the masters
of the new market system discovered that they had no obvious justi-
fication left to maintain even the communism of the rich — that level
of cooperation and solidarity required to keep the economic system
running. True, for all its endless strains and periodic breakdowns, the
system has held out so far. But as recent events have dramatically testi-
fied, it has never been resolved.

Part IV:

So What Is Capitalism, Anyway?

We are used to seeing modern capitalism (along with modern tradi-
tions of democratic government) as emerging only later: with the Age
of Revolutions — the industrial revolution, the American and French
revolutions — a series of profound breaks at the end of the eighteenth
century that only became fully institutionalized after the end of the Na-
poleonic Wars. Here we come face to face with a peculiar paradox. It
would seem that almost all elements of financial apparatus that we've
come to associate with capitalism — central banks, bond markets, short-
selling, brokerage houses, speculative bubbles, securization, annuities —
came into being not only before the science of economics (which is per-
haps not too surprising), but also before the rise of factories, and wage
labor itself.88 This is a genuine challenge to familiar ways of thinking.
We like to think of the factories and workshops as the "real economy,"
and the rest as superstructure, constructed on top of it. But if this were
really so, then how can it be that the superstructure came first? Can the
dreams of the system create its body?

All this raises the question of what "capitalism" is to begin with,
a question on which there is no consensus at all. The word was origi-
nally invented by socialists, who saw capitalism as that system where-
by those who own capital command the labor of those who do not.
Proponents, in contrast, tend to see capitalism as the freedom of the
marketplace, which allows those with potentially marketable visions
to pull resources together to bring those visions into being. Just about

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everyone agrees, however, that capitalism is a system that demands
constant, endless growth. Enterprises have to grow in order to remain
viable. The same is true of nations. Just as five percent per annum was
widely accepted, at the dawn of capitalism, as the legitimate commer-
cial rate of interest — that is, the amount that any investor could nor-
mally expect her money to be growing by the principle of interesse — so
is five percent now the annual rate at which any nation's GDP really
ought to grow. What was once an impersonal mechanism that com-
pelled people to look at everything around them as a potential source
of profit has come to be considered the only objective measure of the
health of the human community itself.

Starting from our baseline date of 1700, then, what we see at the
dawn of modern capitalism is a gigantic financial apparatus of credit
and debt that operates — in practical effect — to pump more and more
labor out of just about everyone with whom it comes into contact,
and as a result produces an endlessly expanding volume of material
goods. It does so not just by moral compulsion, but above all by using
moral compulsion to mobilize sheer physical force. At every point, the
familiar but peculiarly European entanglement of war and commerce
reappears — often in startling new forms. The first stock markets in Hol-
land and Britain were based mainly in trading shares of the East and
West India companies, which were both military and trading ventures.
For a century, one such private, profit-seeking corporation governed In-
dia. The national debts of England, France, and the others were based
in money borrowed not to dig canals and erect bridges, but to acquire
the gunpowder needed to bombard cities and to construct the camps
required for the holding of prisoners and the training of recruits. Almost
all the bubbles of the eighteenth century involved some fantastic scheme
to use the proceeds of colonial ventures to pay for European wars. Paper
money was debt money, and debt money was war money, and this has
always remained the case. Those who financed Europe's endless military
conflicts also employed the government's police and prisons to extract
ever-increasing productivity from the rest of the population.

As everybody knows, the world market system initiated by the
Spaniards and Portuguese empires first arose in the search for spices. It
soon settled into three broad trades, which might be labeled the arms
trade, the slave trade, and the drug trade. The last refers mostly to soft
drugs, of course, like coffee, tea, and the sugar to put in them, and
tobacco, but distilled liquor first appears at this stage of human history
as well, and as we all know, Europeans had no compunctions about
aggressively marketing opium in China as a way of finally putting an
end to the need to export bullion. The cloth trade only came later, after

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347

the East India Company used military force to shut down the (more
efficient) Indian cotton export trade. One need only take a glance at the
book that preserves Charles Davenant's 1696 essay on credit and hu-
man fellowship: The political and commercial works of that celebrated
writer Charles D' Avenant: relating to the trade and revenue of England,
the Plantation trade, the East-India trade and African trade. "Obedience,
love, and friendship" might suffice to govern relations between fellow
Englishmen, then, but in the colonies, it was mainly just obedience.

As I've described, the Atlantic slave trade can be imagined as a
giant chain of debt-obligations, stretching from Bristol to Calabar to
the headwaters of the Cross River, where the Aro traders sponsored
their secret societies; just as in the Indian Ocean trade, similar chains
connected Utrecht to Capetown to Jakarta to the Kingdom of Gelgel,
where Balinese kings arranged their cockfights to lure their own sub-
jects to gamble their freedom away. In either case, the end product was
the same: human beings so entirely ripped from their contexts, and
hence so thoroughly dehumanized, that they were placed outside the
realm of debt entirely.

The middlemen in these chains, the various commercial links of
the debt chain that connected the stock-jobbers in London with the
Aro priests in Nigeria, pearl divers in the Aru islands of Eastern Indo-
nesia, Bengali tea plantations, or Amazonian rubber-tappers, give one
the impression of having been sober, calculating, unimaginative men.
At either end of the debt chain, the whole enterprise seemed to turn
on the ability to manipulate fantasies, and to run a constant peril of
slipping into what even contemporary observers considered varieties of
phantasmagoric madness. On the one end were the periodic bubbles,
propelled in part by rumor and fantasy and in part by the fact that just
about everyone in cities like Paris and London with any disposable cash
would suddenly become convinced that they would somehow be able
to profit from the fact that everyone else was succumbing to rumor
and fantasy.

Charles MacKay has left us some immortal descriptions of the first
of these, the famous "South Sea Bubble" of 1710. Actually, the South
Sea Company itself (which grew so large that at one point it bought up
most of the national debt) was just the anchor for what happened, a
giant corporation, its stock constantly ballooning in value, that seemed,
to put it in contemporary terms, "too big to fail." It soon became the
model for hundreds of new start-up offerings:

Innumerable joint-stock companies started up everywhere.
They soon received the name Bubbles, the most appropriate

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imagination could devise . . . Some of them lasted a week or a
fortnight, and were no more heard of, while others could not
even live out that span of existence. Every evening produced
new schemes, and every morning new projects. The highest of
the aristocracy were as eager in this hot pursuit of gain as the
most plodding jobber in Cornhill.89

The author lists, as arbitrary examples, eighty-six schemes, ranging
from the manufacture of soap or sailcloth, the provision of insurance
for horses, to a method to "make deal-boards out of sawdust." Each
issued stock; each issue would appear, then be scooped up and avidly
traded back and forth in taverns, coffee-houses, alleys, and haberdash-
eries across the city. In every case their price was quickly bid through
the ceiling — each new buyer betting, effectively, that he or she could
unload them to some even more gullible sucker before the inevitable
collapse. Sometimes people bid on cards and coupons that would allow
them no more than the right to bid on other shares later. Thousands
grew rich. Thousands more were ruined.

The most absurd and preposterous of all, and which shewed,
more completely than any other, the utter madness of the peo-
ple, was one started by an unknown adventurer, entitled "A
company for the carrying on of an undertaking of great advan-
tage, but nobody to know what it is."

The man of genius who essayed this bold and successful in-
road upon public credulity merely stated in his prospectus that
the required capital was half a million, in five thousand shares
of iool. each, deposit 2I. per share. Each subscriber, paying
his deposit, would be entitled to iool. per annum per share.
How this immense profit was to be obtained, he would not
condescend to inform them at that time, but promised that in
a month the full particulars would be duly announced, and call
made for the remaining 98I. of the subscription. Next morning,
at nine o'clock, this great man opened an office in Cornhill.
Crowds beset his door, and when he shut up at three o'clock,
he found that no less than one thousand shares had been sub-
scribed for, and the deposits paid.

He was philosopher enough to be contented with his ven-
ture, and set off that same evening for the Continent. He was
never heard of again.90

If one is to believe MacKay, the entire population of London
conceived the simultaneous delusion, not that money could really

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349

be manufactured out of nothing, but that other people were foolish
enough to believe that it could — and that, by that very fact, they actu-
ally could make money out of nothing after all.

Moving to the other side of the debt chain, we find fantasies rang-
ing from the charming to the apocalyptic. In the anthropological lit-
erature, there is everything from the beautiful "sea wives" of Aru pearl
divers, who will not yield up the treasures of the ocean unless courted
with gifts bought on credit from local Chinese shops,91 to the secret
markets where Bengali landlords purchase ghosts to terrorize insubor-
dinate debt peons; to Tiv flesh-debts, a fantasy of human society canni-
balizing itself; to finally, occasions at which, the Tiv nightmare appears
to have very nearly become true.92 One the most famous and disturbing
was the great Putumayo scandal of 1909-1911, in which the London
reading public was shocked to discover that the agents of the subsid-
iary of a British rubber company operating in the Peruvian rainforest
had created their very own Heart of Darkness, exterminating tens of
thousands of Huitoto Indians — who the agents insisted on referring to
only as "cannibals" — in scenes of rape, torture, and mutilation that
recalled the very worst of the conquest four hundred years earlier.93

In the debates that followed, the first impulse was to blame every-
thing on a system whereby the Indians were said to have been caught
in a debt trap, made completely dependent on the company store:

The root of the whole evil was the so called patron or "peon-
age" system — a variety of what used to be called in England
the "truck system" — by which the employee, forced to buy all
his supplies at the employer's store, is kept hopelessly in debt,
while by law he is unable to leave his employment until his
debt is paid . . . The peon is thus, as often as not, a de facto
slave; and since in the remoter regions of the vast continent
there is no effective government, he is wholly at the mercy of
his master.94

The "cannibals" who ended up flogged to death, crucified, tied
up and used for target practice, or hacked to pieces with machetes for
failure to bring in sufficient quantities of rubber, had, the story went,
fallen into the ultimate debt trap; seduced by the wares of the com-
pany's agents, they'd ended up bartering away their very lives.

A later Parliamentary inquiry discovered that the real story was
nothing of the sort. The Huitoto had not been tricked into becoming
debt peons at all. It was the agents and overseers sent into the region
who were, much like the conquistadors, deeply indebted — in their case,

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to the Peruvian company that had commissioned them, which was ul-
timately receiving its own credit from London financiers. These agents
had certainly arrived with every intention of extending that web of
credit to include the Indians, but discovering the Huitoto to have no
interest in the cloth, machetes, and coins they had brought to trade
with them, they'd finally given up and just started rounding Indians
up and forcing them to accept loans at gunpoint, then tabulating the
amount of rubber they owed.95 Many of the Indians massacred, in turn,
had simply been trying to run away.

In reality, then, the Indians had been reduced to slavery; it's just
that, by 1907, no one could openly admit this. A legitimate enterprise
had to have some moral basis, and the only morality the company
knew was debt. When it became clear that the Huitoto rejected the
premise, everything went haywire, and the company ended up, like Ca-
simir, caught in a spiral of indignant terror that ultimately threatened
to wipe out its very economic basis.

It is the secret scandal of capitalism that at no point has it been or-
ganized primarily around free labor.96 The conquest of the Americas
began with mass enslavement, then gradually settled into various forms
of debt peonage, African slavery, and "indentured service" — that is,
the use of contract labor, workers who had received cash in advance
and were thus bound for five-, seven-, or ten-year terms to pay it
back. Needless to say, indentured servants were recruited largely from
among people who were already debtors. In the 1600s there were at
times almost as many white debtors as African slaves working in
southern plantations, and legally they were at first in almost the same
situation, since in the beginning, plantation societies were working
within a European legal tradition that assumed slavery did not exist,
so even Africans in the Carolinas were classified, as contract laborers.97
Of course this later changed when the idea of "race" was introduced.
When African slaves were freed, they were replaced, on plantations
from Barbados to Mauritius, with contract laborers again: though now
ones recruited mainly in India or China. Chinese contract laborers
built the North American railroad system, and Indian "coolies" built
the South African mines. The peasants of Russia and Poland, who had
been free landholders in the Middle Ages, were only made serfs at the
dawn of capitalism, when their lords began to sell grain on the new
world market to feed the new industrial cities to the west.98 Colonial
regimes in Africa and Southeast Asia regularly demanded forced labor

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351

from their conquered subjects, or, alternately, created tax systems de-
signed to force the population into the labor market through debt.
British overlords in India, starting with the East India Company but
continuing under Her Majesty's government, institutionalized debt pe-
onage as their primary means of creating products for sale abroad.

This is a scandal not just because the system occasionally goes
haywire, as it did in the Putumayo, but because it plays havoc with
our most cherished assumptions about what capitalism really is —
particularly that, in its basic nature, capitalism has something to do
with freedom. For the capitalists, this means the freedom of the mar-
ketplace. For most workers, it means free labor. Marxists have ques-
tioned whether wage labor is ultimately free in any sense (since some-
one with nothing to sell but his or her body cannot in any sense be
considered a genuinely free agent), but they still tend to assume that
free wage labor is the basis of capitalism. And the dominant image in
the history of capitalism is the English workingman toiling in the facto-
ries of the industrial revolution, and this image can be traced forward
to Silicon Valley, with a straight line in between. All those millions of
slaves and serfs and coolies and debt peons disappear, or if we must
speak of them, we write them off as temporary bumps along the road.
Like sweatshops, this is assumed to be a stage that industrializing na-
tions had to pass through, just as it is still assumed that all those mil-
lions of debt peons and contract laborers and sweatshop workers who
still exist, often in the same places, will surely live to see their children
become regular wage laborers with health insurance and pensions, and
their children, doctors and lawyers and entrepreneurs.

When one looks at the actual history of wage labor, even in coun-
tries like England, that picture begins to melt away. In most of Medieval
northern Europe, wage labor had been mainly a lifestyle phenomenon.
From roughly the age of twelve or fourteen to roughly twenty-eight or
thirty, everyone was expected to be employed as a servant in someone
else's household — usually on a yearly contract basis, for which they re-
ceived room, board, professional training, and usually a wage of some
sort — until they accumulated enough resources to marry and set up a
household of their own." The first thing that "proletarianization" came
to mean was that millions of young men and women across Europe
found themselves effectively stuck in a kind of permanent adolescence.
Apprentices and journeymen could never become "masters," and thus,
never actually grow up. Eventually, many began to give up and marry
early — to the great scandal of the moralists, who insisted that the new
proletariat were starting families they could not possibly support.100

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There is, and has always been, a curious affinity between wage
labor and slavery. This is not just because it was slaves on Carib-
bean sugar plantations who supplied the quick-energy products that
powered much of early wage laborers' work; not just because most
of the scientific management techniques applied in factories in the in-
dustrial revolution can be traced back to those sugar plantations; but
also because both the relation between master and slave, and between
employer and employee, are in principle impersonal: whether you've
been sold or you're simply rented yourself out, the moment money
changes hands, who you are is supposed to be unimportant; all that's
important is that you are capable of understanding orders and doing
what you're told.101

This is one reason, perhaps, that in principle, there was always a
feeling that both the buying of slaves and the hiring of laborers should
really not be on credit, but should employ cash. The problem, as
I've noted, was that for most of the history of British capitalism, the
cash simply didn't exist. Even when the Royal Mint began to produce
smaller-denomination silver and copper coins, the supply was sporadic
and inadequate. This is how the "truck system" developed to begin
with: during the industrial revolution, factory owners would often pay
their workers with tickets or vouchers good only in local shops, with
whose owners they had some sort of informal arrangement, or, in more
isolated parts of the country, which they owned themselves.102 Tradi-
tional credit relations with one's local shopkeeper clearly took on an
entirely new complexion once the shopkeeper was effectively an agent
of the boss. Another expedient was to pay workers at least partly in
kind — and notice the very richness of the vocabulary for the sorts of
things one was assumed to be allowed to appropriate from one's work-
place, particularly from the waste, excess, and side products: cabbage,
chips, thrums, sweepings, buggings, gleanings, sweepings, potchings,
vails, poake, coltage, knockdowns, tinge.103 "Cabbage," for instance,
was the cloth left over from tailoring, "chips" the pieces of board that
dockworkers had the right to carry from their workplace (any piece of
timber less than two feet long), "thrums" were taken from the warping-
bars of looms, and so on. And of course we have already heard about
payment in the form of cod, or nails.

Employers had a final expedient: wait for the money to show up,
and in the meantime, don't pay anything — leaving their employees to
get by with only what they could scrounge from their shop floors, or
what their families could finagle in outside employment, receive in
charity, preserve in savings pools with friends and families, or, when
all else failed, acquire on credit from the loan sharks and pawnbrokers
who rapidly came to be seen as the perennial scourge of the working

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353

poor. The situation became such that, by the nineteenth century, any
time a fire destroyed a London pawnshop, working-class neighbor-
hoods would brace for the wave of domestic violence that would in-
evitably ensue when many a wife was forced to confess that she'd long
since secretly hocked her husband's Sunday suit.104

We are, nowadays, used to associating factories eighteen months in
arrears for wages with a nation in economic free-fall, such as occurred
during the collapse of the Soviet Union; but owing to the hard-money
policies of the British government, who were always concerned above
all to ensure that their paper money didn't float away in another specu-
lative bubble, in the early days of industrial capitalism, such a situation
was in no way unusual. Even the government was often unable to find
the cash to pay its own employees. In eighteenth-century London, the
Royal Admiralty was regularly over a year behind in paying the wages
of those who labored at the Deptford docks — one reason that they were
willing to tolerate the appropriation of chips, not to mention hemp,
canvas, steel bolts, and cordage. In fact, as Linebaugh has shown, the
situation only really began to take recognizable form around 1800,
when the government stabilized its finances, began paying cash wages
on schedule, and therefore tried to abolish the practice of what was
now relabeled "workplace pilfering" — which, meeting outraged resis-
tance on the part of the dockworkers, was made punishable by whip-
ping and imprisonment. Samuel Bentham, the engineer put in charge of
reforming the dockyards, had to turn them into a regular police state
in order to be able to institute a regime of pure wage labor — to which
purpose he ultimately conceived the notion of building a giant tower
in the middle to guarantee constant surveillance, an idea that was later
borrowed by his brother Jeremy for the famous Panopticon.105

Men like Smith and Bentham were idealists; even Utopians. To under-
stand the history of capitalism, however, we have to begin by realizing
that the picture we have in our heads, of workers who dutifully punch
the clock at 8:00 a.m. and receive regular remuneration every Friday,
on the basis of a temporary contract that either party is free to break
off at any time, began as a Utopian vision, was only gradually put
into effect even in England and North America, and has never, at any
point, been the main way of organizing production for the market,
ever, anywhere.

This is actually why Smith's work is so important. He created the
vision of an imaginary world almost entirely free of debt and credit,

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and therefore, free of guilt and sin; a world where men and women
were free to simply calculate their interests in full knowledge that ev-
erything had been prearranged by God to ensure that it will serve the
greater good. Such imaginary constructs are of course what scientists
refer to as "models," and there's nothing intrinsically wrong with them.
Actually I think a fair case can be made that we cannot think without
them. The problem with such models — at least, it always seems to
happen when we model something called "the market" — is that, once
created, we have a tendency to treat them as objective realities, or even
fall down before them and start worshipping them as gods. "We must
obey the dictates of the market!"

Karl Marx, who knew quite a bit about the human tendency to
fall down and worship our own creations, wrote Das Capital in an
attempt to demonstrate that, even if we do start from the economists'
Utopian vision, so long as we also allow some people to control pro-
ductive capital, and, again, leave others with nothing to sell but their
brains and bodies, the results will be in many ways barely distinguish-
able from slavery, and the whole system will eventually destroy itself.
What everyone seems to forget is the "as if" nature of his analysis.106
Marx was well aware that there were far more bootblacks, prostitutes,
butlers, soldiers, pedlars, chimneysweeps, flower girls, street musicians,
convicts, nannies, and cab drivers in the London of his day than there
were factory workers. He was never suggesting that that's what the
world was actually like.

Still, if there is anything that the last several hundred years of
world history have shown, it's that Utopian visions can have a certain
appeal. This is as true of Adam Smith's as of those ranged against it.
The period from roughly 1825 to 1975 is a brief but determined effort
on the part of a large number of very powerful people — with the avid
support of many of the least powerful — to try to turn that vision into
something like reality. Coins and paper money were, finally, produced
in sufficient quantities that even ordinary people could conduct their
daily lives without appeal to tickets, tokens, or credit. Wages started to
be paid on time. New sorts of shops, arcades, and galleries appeared,
where everyone paid in cash, or alternately, as time went on, by means
of impersonal forms of credit like installment plans. As a result, the
old puritanical notion that debt was sin and degradation began to take
a profound hold on many of those who came to consider themselves
the "respectable" working classes, who often took freedom from the
clutches of the pawnbroker and loan shark as a point of pride, which
separated them from drunkards, hustlers, and ditch-diggers as surely as
the fact that they weren't missing teeth.

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355

Speaking as someone brought up in that sort of working-class fam-
ily (my brother died at the age of 53, having refused to his dying day
to acquire a credit card), I can attest to the degree that, for those who
spend most of their waking hours working at someone else's orders,
the ability to pull out a wallet full of banknotes that are uncondition-
ally one's own can be a compelling form of freedom. It's not surprising
that so many of the economists' assumptions — most of those for which
I have been taking them to task over the course of this book — have
been embraced by the leaders of the historic workers' movements, so
much so that they have come to shape our visions of what alternatives
to capitalism might be like. The problem is not just — as I demonstrated
in chapter 7 — that it is rooted in a deeply flawed, even perverse, con-
ception of human freedom. The real problem is that, like all Utopian
dreams, it is impossible. We could no more have a universal world
market than we could have a system in which everyone who wasn't a
capitalist was somehow able to become a respectable, regularly paid
wage laborer with access to adequate dental care. A world like that
has never existed and never could exist. What's more, the moment that
even the prospect that this might happen begins to materialize, the
whole system starts to come apart.

Part IV:
Apocalypse

Let us return, finally, to where we began: with Cortes and the Aztec
treasure. The reader might have asked herself, What did happen to it?
Did Cortes really steal it from his own men?

The answer seems to be that by the time the siege was over, there
was very little of it left. Cortes seems to have gotten his hands on much
of it long before the siege even began. A certain portion he had won
by gambling.

This story, too, is in Bernal Diaz, and it is strange and puzzling,
but also, I suspect, profound. Let me fill in some of the gaps in our
story. After burning his boats, Cortes began to assemble an army of lo-
cal allies, which was easy to do because the Aztecs were widely hated,
and then he began to march on the Aztec capital. Moctezuma, the Az-
tec emperor, who had been monitoring the situation closely, concluded
that he needed to at least figure out what sort of people he was dealing
with, so he invited the entire Spanish force (only a few hundred men)
to be his official guests in Tenochtitlan. This eventually led to a series

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of palace intrigues during which Cortes's men briefly held the emperor
hostage before being forcibly expelled.

During the time when Moctezuma was being held captive in his
own palace, he and Cortes passed a good deal of their time playing
an Aztec game called totoloque. They played for gold, and Cortes, of
course, cheated. At one point, Moctezuma's men brought the matter
to the king's attention, but the king just laughed and made a joke of
it — neither was he concerned later when Pedro de Alvarado, Cortes's
chief lieutenant, began cheating even more flagrantly, demanding gold
for each point lost and when he lost, paying only in worthless pebbles.
Why Moctezuma behaved so has remained something of an historical
mystery. Diaz took it as a gesture of lordly magnanimity, perhaps even
a way of putting the petty-minded Spaniards in their place.107

One historian, Inga Clenninden, suggests an alternate interpreta-
tion. Aztec games, she notes, tended to have a peculiar feature: there
was always a way that, by a freak stroke of luck, one could achieve to-
tal victory. This seems to have been true, for instance, of their famous
ball games. Observers always wonder, viewing the tiny stone hoops set
high above the court, how anyone could ever possibly have managed
to score. The answer seems to be: they didn't, at least not that way.
Normally the game had nothing to do with the hoop. The game was
played between two opposing squads, attired as for battle, knocking
the ball back and forth:

The normal method of scoring was through the slow accumu-
lation of points. But that process could be dramatically pre-
empted. To send the ball through one of the rings — a feat,
given the size of the ball and the ring, presumably rarer than
a hole in one in golf — gave instant victory, ownership of all
the goods wagered, and the right to pillage the cloaks of the
onlookers.108

Whoever scored the point won everything, down to the audience's
clothing.

There were similar rules in board games, such as Cortes and Moct-
ezuma were playing: if, by some freak stroke of luck, one of the dice
landed on its edge, the game was over, and the winner took everything.
This, Clenninden suggests, must have been what Moctezuma was re-
ally waiting for. After all, he was clearly in the middle of extraordinary
events. Strange creatures had appeared, apparently from nowhere, with
unheard-of powers. Rumors of epidemics, of the destruction of nearby
nations, had presumably already reached him. If ever there was a time

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357

that some grandiose revelation was due from the gods, then surely this
was it.

Such an attitude does seem to fit perfectly with the spirit of Az-
tec culture gleaned from its literature, which exuded a sense of im-
pending catastrophe, perhaps astrologically determined, just possibly
avoidable — but probably not. Some have suggested that Aztecs must
have somehow been aware that they were a civilization skating on
the brink of ecological catastrophe; others, that the apocalyptic tone
is retrospective — since, after all, what we know of Aztec literature is
almost entirely gleaned from men and women who actually did expe-
rience its complete destruction. Still, there does seem to be a certain
frantic quality in certain Aztec practices — the sacrifice of as many as
tens of thousands of war prisoners, most notably in the apparent belief
that, were the Sun not continually fed with human hearts, it would die
and world with it — that it's hard to explain in any other way.

If Clenninden is right, for Moctezuma, he and Cortes were not
simply gambling for gold. Gold was trivial. The stakes were the entire
universe.

Moctezuma was above all a warrior, and all warriors are gam-
blers; but unlike Cortes, he was clearly in every way a man of honor.
As we've also seen, the quintessence of a warrior's honor, which is a
greatness that can only come from the destruction and degradation of
others, is his willingness to throw himself into a game where he risks
that same destruction and degradation himself — and, unlike Cortes, to
play graciously, and by the rules.109 When the time came, it meant be-
ing willing to stake everything.

He did. And as it turns out, nothing happened. No die landed on
its edge. Cortes continued to cheat, the gods sent no revelation, and the
universe was eventually destroyed.

If there's something to be learned here — and as I say, I think there
is — it is that there may be a deeper, more profound relation between
gambling and apocalypse. Capitalism is a system that enshrines the
gambler as an essential part of its operation, in a way that no other
ever has; yet at the same time, capitalism seems to be uniquely incapa-
ble of conceiving of its own eternity. Could these two facts be linked?

I should be more precise here. It's not entirely true that capitalism
is incapable of conceiving of its own eternity. On the one hand, its
exponents do often feel obliged to present it as eternal, because they
insist that is it is the only possible viable economic system: one that, as
they still sometimes like to say, "has existed for five thousand years and
will exist for five thousand more." On the other hand, it does seem that
the moment a significant portion of the population begins to actually

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believe this, and particularly, starts treating credit institutions as if
they really will be around forever, everything goes haywire. Note here
how it was the most sober, cautious, responsible capitalist regimes —
the seventeenth-century Dutch Republic, the eighteenth-century British
Commonwealth — the ones most careful about managing their public
debt — that saw the most bizarre explosions of speculative frenzy, the
tulip manias and South Sea bubbles.

Much of this seems to turn on the nature of national deficits and
credit money. The national debt is, as politicians have complained
practically since these things first appeared, money borrowed from
future generations. Still, the effects have always been strangely double-
edged. On the one hand, deficit financing is a way of putting even more
military power in the hands of princes, generals, and politicians; on the
other, it suggests that government owes something to those it governs.
Insofar as our money is ultimately an extension of the public debt, then
whenever we buy a newspaper or a cup of coffee, or even place a bet
on a horse, we are trading in promises, representations of something
that the government will give us at some time in the future, even if we
don't know exactly what it is.110

Immanuel Wallerstein likes to point out that the French Revolu-
tion introduced several profoundly new ideas in politics — ideas which,
fifty years before the revolution, the vast majority of educated Europe-
ans would have written off as crazy, but which, fifty years afterward,
just about anyone felt they had to at least pretend they thought were
true. The first is that social change is inevitable and desirable: that the
natural direction of history is for civilization to gradually improve.
The second is that the appropriate agent to manage such change is
the government. The third is that the government gains its legitimacy
from an entity called "the people.'"" It's easy to see how the very idea
of a national debt — a promise of continual future improvement (at the
very least, five percent annual improvement) made by government to
people — might itself have played a role in inspiring such a revolution-
ary new perspective. Yet at the same time, when one looks at what men
like Mirabeau, Voltaire, Diderot, Sieyes — the pbilosophes who first
proposed that notion of what we now call "civilization" — were actu-
ally arguing about in the years immediately leading up to the revolu-
tion, it was even more about the danger of apocalyptic catastrophe, of
the prospect of civilization as they knew it being destroyed by default
and economic collapse.

Part of the problem was the obvious one: the national debt is,
first, born of war; second, it is not owed to all the people equally, but
above all to capitalists — and in France at that time, "capitalist" meant,

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359

specifically, "those who held pieces of the national debt." The more
democratically inclined felt that the entire situation was opprobrious.
"The modern theory of the perpetuation of debt," Thomas Jefferson
wrote, around this same time, "has drenched the earth with blood,
and crushed its inhabitants under burdens ever accumulating.""2 Most
Enlightenment thinkers feared that it promised even worse. Intrinsic to
the new, "modern" notion of impersonal debt, after all, was the possi-
bility of bankruptcy.'" Bankruptcy, at that time, was indeed something
of a personal apocalypse: it meant prison, the dissolution of one's
estate; for the least fortunate, it meant torture, starvation, and death.
What national bankruptcy would mean, at that point in history, no-
body knew. There were simply no precedents. Yet as nations fought
greater and bloodier wars, and their debts escalated geometrically, de-
fault began to appear unavoidable."4 Abbe Sieyes first put forward his
great scheme for representative government, for instance, primarily as
a way of reforming the national finances, to fend off the inevitable
catastrophe. And when it happened, what would it look like? Would
the money become worthless? Would military regimes seize power,
regimes across Europe be likewise forced to default and fall like domi-
nos, plunging the continent into endless barbarism, darkness, and war?
Many were already anticipating the prospect of the Terror long before
the revolution itself."5

It's a strange story because we are used to thinking of the Enlight-
enment as the dawn of a unique phase of human optimism, borne on
assumptions that the advance of science and human knowledge would
inevitably make life wiser, safer, and better for everyone — a naive faith
said to have peaked in the Fabian socialism of the 1890s, only to be
annihilated in the trenches of World War I. In fact, even the Victorians
were haunted by the dangers of degeneration and decline. Most of all,
Victorians shared the near-universal assumption that capitalism itself
would not be around forever. Insurrection seemed imminent. Many
Victorian capitalists operated under the sincere belief that they might,
at any moment, find themselves hanging from trees. In Chicago, for
instance, a friend once took me on a drive down a beautiful old street,
full of mansions from the 1870s: the reason, he explained, that it looked
like that, was that most of Chicago's rich industrialists of the time were
so convinced that the revolution was immanent that they collectively
relocated along the road that led to the nearest military base. Almost
none of the great theorists of capitalism, from anywhere on the politi-
cal spectrum, from Marx to Weber, to Schumpeter, to von Mises, felt
that capitalism was likely to be around for more than another genera-
tion or two at the most.

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One could go further: the moment that the fear of imminent social
revolution no longer seemed plausible, by the end of World War II, we
were immediately presented with the specter of nuclear holocaust.116
Then, when that no longer seemed plausible, we discovered global
warming. This is not to say that these threats were not, and are not,
real. Yet it does seem strange that capitalism feels the constant need
to imagine, or to actually manufacture, the means of its own immi-
nent extinction. It's in dramatic contrast to the behavior of the leaders
of socialist regimes, from Cuba to Albania, who, when they came to
power, immediately began acting as if their system would be around
forever — ironically enough, considering they in fact turned out to be
something of an historical blip.

Perhaps the reason is because what was true in 1710 is still true.
Presented with the prospect of its own eternity, capitalism — or any-
way, financial capitalism — simply explodes. Because if there's no end
to it, there's absolutely no reason not to generate credit — that is, future
money — infinitely. Recent events would certainly seem to confirm this.
The period leading up to 2008 was one in which many began to believe
that capitalism really was going to be around forever; at the very least,
no one seemed any longer to be able to imagine an alternative. The im-
mediate effect was a series of increasingly reckless bubbles that brought
the whole apparatus crashing down.

Chapter Twelve

(1971-The Beginning of
Something Yet to Be Determined)

Look at all these bums: If only there
were a way of finding out how much
they owe.

— Repo Man (1984)

Free your mind of the idea of deserv-
ing, of the idea of earning, and you will
begin to be able to think.
— Ursula K. Le Guin, The Dispossessed

ON AUGUST 15, 1971, United States President Richard Nixon an-
nounced that foreign-held U.S. dollars would no longer be convertible
into gold — thus stripping away the last vestige of the international gold
standard.1 This was the end of a policy that had been effective since
1931, and confirmed by the Bretton Woods accords at the end of World
War II: that while United States citizens might no longer be allowed
to cash in their dollars for gold, all U.S. currency held outside the
country was to be redeemable at the rate of $35 an ounce. By doing so,
Nixon initiated the regime of free-floating currencies that continues to
this day.

The consensus among historians is that Nixon had little choice. His
hand was forced by the rising costs of the Vietnam War — one that, like
all capitalist wars, had been financed by deficit spending. The United
States was in possession of a large proportion of the world's gold re-
serves in its vaults in Fort Knox (though increasingly less in the late
1960s, as other governments, most famously Charles de Gaulle's France,
began demanding gold for their dollars); most poorer countries, in con-
trast, kept their reserves in dollars. The immediate effect of Nixon's
unpegging the dollar was to cause the price of gold to skyrocket; it hit a
peak of $600 an ounce in 1980. This of course had the effect of causing

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U.S. gold reserves to increase dramatically in value. The value of the dol-
lar, as denominated in gold, plummeted. The result was a massive net
transfer of wealth from poor countries, which lacked gold reserves, to
rich ones, like the United States and Great Britain, that maintained them.
In the United States, it also set off persistent inflation.

Whatever Nixon's reasons, though, once the global system of cred-
it money was entirely unpegged from gold, the world entered a new
phase of financial history — one that nobody completely understands.
While I was growing up in New York, I would hear occasional rumors
of secret gold vaults underneath the Twin Towers in Manhattan. Sup-
posedly, these vaults contained not just the U.S. gold reserves, but
those of all the major economic powers. The gold was said to be kept
in the form of bars, piled up in separate vaults, one for each country,
and every year, when the balance of accounts was calculated, workmen
with dollies would adjust the stocks accordingly, carting, say, a few
million in gold out of the vault marked "Brazil" and transfering them
to the one marked "Germany," and so on.

Apparently a lot of people had heard these stories. At least, right
after the Towers were destroyed on September n, 2001, one of the
first questions many New Yorkers asked was: What happened to the
money? Was it safe? Were the vaults destroyed? Presumably, the gold
had melted. Was this the real aim of the attackers? Conspiracy theo-
ries abounded. Some spoke of legions of emergency workers secretly
summoned to make their way through miles of overheated tunnels,
desperately carting off tons of bullion even as rescue workers labored
overhead. One particularly colorful conspiracy theory suggested that
the entire attack was really staged by speculators who, like Nixon,
expected to see the value of the dollar crash and that of gold to
skyrocket — either because the reserves had been destroyed, or because
they themselves had laid prior plans to steal them.2

The truly remarkable thing about this story is that, after having be-
lieved it for years, and then, in the wake of 9/11, having been convinced
by some more knowing friends that it was all a great myth ("No," one
of them said resignedly, as if to a child, "the United States keeps its
gold reserves in Fort Knox"), I did a little research and discovered that,
no, actually, it's true. The United States treasury's gold reserves are
indeed kept at Fort Knox, but the Federal Reserve's gold reserves, and
those of more than one hundred other central banks, governments, and
organizations, are stored in vaults under the Federal Reserve building
at 33 Liberty Street in Manhattan, two blocks away from the Tow-
ers. At roughly five thousand metric tons (266 million troy ounces),
these combined reserves represent, according to the Fed's own website,

(1971-THE BEGINNING. . .) 363

somewhere between one-fifth and one-quarter of all the gold that has
ever been taken from the earth:

"The gold stored at the Federal Reserve Bank of New York is se-
cured in a most unusual vault. It rests on the bedrock of Manhattan
Island — one of the few foundations considered adequate to support the
weight of the vault, its door, and the gold inside — eighty feet below
street level and fifty feet below sea level . . . To reach the vault, bullion-
laden pallets must be loaded into one of the Bank's elevators and sent
down five floors below street level to the vault floor ... If everything
is in order, the gold is either moved to one or more of the vault's 122
compartments assigned to depositing countries and official internation-
al organizations or placed on shelves. 'Gold stackers,' using hydraulic
lifts, do indeed shift them back and forth between compartments to
balance credits and debts, though the vaults have only numbers, so
even the workers don't know who is paying whom."3

There is no reason to believe, however, that these vaults were in
any way affected by the events of September 11, 2001.

Reality, then, has become so odd that it's hard to guess which ele-
ments of grand mythic fantasies are really fantasy, and which are true.
The image of collapsed vaults, the melted bullion, of secret workers
scurrying deep below Manhattan with underground forklifts evacuat-
ing the world economy — all this turns out not to be. But is it entirely
surprising that people were willing to consider it?4

In America, the banking system since the days of Thomas Jefferson
has shown a remarkable capacity to inspire paranoid fantasies: whether
centering on Freemasons, or Elders of Zion, or the Secret Order of the
Illuminati, or the Queen of England's drug-money-laundering opera-
tions, or any of a thousand other secret conspiracies and cabals. It's
the main reason why it took so long for an American central bank to
be established to begin with. In a way there's nothing surprising here.
The United States has always been dominated by a certain market
populism, and the ability of banks to "create money out of nothing" —
and even more, to prevent anyone else from doing so — has always been
the bugaboo of market populists, since it directly contradicts the idea
that markets are a simple expression of democratic equality. Still, since
Nixon's floating of the dollar, it has become evident that it's only the
wizard behind the screen who seems to be maintaining the viability
of the whole arrangement. Under the free-market orthodoxy that fol-
lowed, we have all being asked, effectively, to accept that "the market"
is a self-regulating system, with the rising and falling of prices akin to
a force of nature, and simultaneously to ignore the fact that, in the
business pages, it is simply assumed that markets rise and fall mainly

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in anticipation of, or reaction to, decisions regarding interest rates by
Alan Greenspan, or Ben Bernanke, or whoever is currently the chair-
man of the Federal Reserve.5

One element, however, tends to go flagrantly missing in even the most
vivid conspiracy theories about the banking system, let alone in official
accounts: that is, the role of war and military power. There's a reason
why the wizard has such a strange capacity to create money out of
nothing. Behind him, there's a man with a gun.

True, in one sense, he's been there from the start. I have already
pointed out that modern money is based on government debt, and
that governments borrow money in order to finance wars. This is just
as true today as it was in the age of King Phillip II. The creation of
central banks represented a permanent institutionalization of that mar-
riage between the interests of warriors and financiers that had already
begun to emerge in Renaissance Italy, and that eventually became the
foundation of financial capitalism.6

Nixon floated the dollar in order to pay for the cost of a war in
which, during the period of 1970-1972 alone, he ordered more than
four million tons of explosives and incendiaries dropped on cities and
villages across Indochina — causing one senator to dub him "the great-
est bomber of all time."7 The debt crisis was a direct result of the
need to pay for the bombs, or to be more precise, the vast military
infrastructure required to deliver them. This was what was causing
such an enormous strain on the U.S. gold reserves. Many hold that
by floating the dollar, Nixon converted the U.S. currency into pure
"fiat money" — mere pieces of paper, intrinsically worthless, that were
treated as money only because the United States government insisted
that it should be. In that case, one could well argue that U.S. military
power was now the only thing backing up the currency. In a certain
sense this is true, but the notion of "fiat money" assumes that money
really "was" gold in the first place. Really we are dealing with another
variation of credit money.

Contrary to popular belief, the U.S. government can't "just print
money," because American money is not issued by the government at
all, but by private banks, under the aegis of the Federal Reserve Sys-
tem. The Federal Reserve — despite the name — is technically not part
of the government at all, but a peculiar sort of public-private hybrid,
a consortium of privately owned banks whose chairman is appoint-
ed by the United States president, with Congressional approval, but

(1971-THE BEGINNING. . .) 365

which otherwise operates without public oversight. All dollar bills in
circulation in America are "Federal Reserve Notes" — the Fed issues
them as promissory notes, and commissions the U.S. mint to do the
actual printing, paying it four cents for each bill.8 The arrangement
is just a variation of the scheme originally pioneered by the Bank of
England, whereby the Fed "loans" money to the United States govern-
ment by purchasing treasury bonds, and then monetizes the U.S. debt
by lending the money thus owed by the government to other banks.9
The difference is that while the Bank of England originally loaned the
king gold, the Fed simply whisks the money into existence by saying
that it's there. Thus, it's the Fed that has the power to print money.10
The banks that receive loans from the Fed are no longer permitted to
print money themselves, but they are allowed to create virtual money
by making loans at a fractional reserve rate established by the Fed —
though in the wake of the current credit crisis, at time of this writing,
there has been a move to remove even these restrictions.

All this is a bit of a simplification: monetary policy is endlessly
arcane, and it does sometimes seem, intentionally so. (Henry Ford once
remarked that if ordinary Americans ever found out how the banking
system really worked, there would be a revolution tomorrow.) What
is remarkable for present purposes is not so much that American dol-
lars are created by banks, but that one apparently paradoxical result
of Nixon's floating the currency was that these bank-created dollars
themselves replaced gold as the world's reserve currency: that is, as the
ultimate store of value in the world, yielding the United States enor-
mous economic advantages.

Meanwhile, the U.S. debt remains, as it has been since 1790, a war
debt: the United States continues to spend more on its military than do
all other nations on earth put together, and military expenditures are
not only the basis of the government's industrial policy; they also take
up such a huge proportion of the budget that by many estimations,
were it not for them, the United States would not run a deficit at all.

The U.S. military, unlike any other, maintains a doctrine of global
power projection: that it should have the ability, through roughly 800
overseas military bases, to intervene with deadly force absolutely any-
where on the planet. In a way, though, land forces are secondary; at
least since World War II, the key to U.S. military doctrine has always
been a reliance on air power. The United States has fought no war in
which it did not control the skies, and it has relied on aerial bombard-
ment far more systematically than any other military — in its recent oc-
cupation of Iraq, for instance, even going so far as to bomb residential
neighborhoods of cities ostensibly under its own control. The essence

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of U.S. military predominance in the world is, ultimately, the fact that
it can, at will, drop bombs, with only a few hours' notice, at absolutely
any point on the surface of the planet.11 No other government has ever
had anything remotely like this sort of capability. In fact, a case could
well be made that it is this very power that holds the entire world
monetary system, organized around the dollar, together.

Because of United States trade deficits, huge numbers of dollars
circulate outside the country; and one effect of Nixon's floating of the
dollar was that foreign central banks have little they can do with these
dollars except to use them to buy U.S. treasury bonds.12 This is what
is meant by the dollar becoming the world's "reserve currency." These
bonds are, like all bonds, supposed to be loans that will eventually
mature and be repaid, but as economist Michael Hudson, who first
began observing the phenomenon in the early '70s, noted, they never
really do:

To the extent that these Treasury IOUs are being built into
the world's monetary base they will not have to be repaid, but
are to be rolled over indefinitely. This feature is the essence of
America's free financial ride, a tax imposed at the entire globe's
expense.13

What's more, over time, the combined effect of low interest pay-
ments and the inflation is that these bonds actually depreciate in

(1971-THE BEGINNING . . .)

367

value — adding to the tax effect, or as I preferred to put it in the first
chapter, "tribute." Economists prefer to call it "seigniorage." The effect,
though, is that American imperial power is based on a debt that will
never — can never — be repaid. Its national debt has become a promise,
not just to its own people, but to the nations of the entire world, that
everyone knows will not be kept.

At the same time, U.S. policy was to insist that those countries
relying on U.S. treasury bonds as their reserve currency behaved in ex-
actly the opposite way as they did: observing tight money policies and
scrupulously repaying their debts.

As I've already observed, since Nixon's time, the most significant
overseas buyers of U.S. treasury bonds have tended to be banks in
countries that were effectively under U.S. military occupation. In Eu-
rope, Nixon's most enthusiastic ally in this respect was West Germany,
which then hosted more than three hundred thousand U.S. troops. In
more recent decades the focus has shifted to Asia, particularly the cen-
tral banks of countries like Japan, Taiwan, and South Korea — again,
all U.S. military protectorates. What's more, the global status of the
dollar is maintained in large part by the fact that it is, again since 1971,
the only currency used to buy and sell petroleum, with any attempt by
OPEC countries to begin trading in any currency stubbornly resisted
by OPEC members Saudi Arabia and Kuwait — also U.S. military pro-
tectorates. When Saddam Hussein made the bold move of singlehand-
edly switching from the dollar to the euro in 2000, followed by Iran
in 2001, this was quickly followed by American bombing and military
occupation.14 How much Hussein's decision to buck the dollar really
weighed into the U.S. decision to depose him is impossible to know,
but no country in a position to make a similar switch can ignore the
possibility. The result, among policymakers particularly in the global
South, is widespread terror.15

In all this, the advent of the free-floating dollar marks not a break
with the alliance of warriors and financiers on which capitalism itself
was originally founded, but its ultimate apotheosis. Neither has the
return to virtual money led to a great return to relations of honor
and trust: quite the contrary. By 1971, the change had only just begun.
The American Express card, the first general-purpose credit card, had
been invented a mere thirteen years before, and the modern national
credit-card system had only really come into being with the advent of
Visa and MasterCard in 1968. Debit cards were later, creatures of the

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1970s, and the current, largely cashless economy only came into being
in the 1990s. All of these new credit arrangements were mediated not
by interpersonal relations of trust but by profit-seeking corporations,
and one of the earliest and greatest political victories of the U.S. credit-
card industry was the elimination of all legal restrictions on what they
could charge as interest.

If history holds true, an age of virtual money should mean a
movement away from war, empire-building, slavery, and debt peon-
age (waged or otherwise), and toward the creation of some sort of
overarching institutions, global in scale, to protect debtors. What we
have seen so far is the opposite. The new global currency is rooted in
military power even more firmly than the old was. Debt peonage con-
tinues to be the main principle of recruiting labor globally: either in the
literal sense, in much of East Asia or Latin America, or in the subjective
sense, whereby most of those working for wages or even salaries feel
that they are doing so primarily to pay off interest-bearing loans. The
new transportation and communications technologies have just made
it easier, making it possible to charge domestics or factory workers
thousands of dollars in transportation fees, and then have them work
off the debt in distant countries where they lack legal protections.16
Insofar as overarching grand cosmic institutions have been created that
might be considered in any way parallel to the divine kings of the an-
cient Middle East or the religious authorities of the Middle Ages, they
have not been created to protect debtors, but to enforce the rights of
creditors. The International Monetary Fund is only the most dramatic
case in point here. It stands at the pinnacle of a great, emerging global
bureaucracy — the first genuinely global administrative system in human
history, enshrined not only in the United Nations, the World Bank, and
the World Trade Organization, but also the endless host of economic
unions and trade organizations and non-governmental organizations
that work in tandem with them — created largely under U.S. patron-
age. All of them operate on the principle that (unless one is the United
States Treasury), "one has to pay one's debts" — since the specter of
default by any country is assumed to imperil the entire world monetary
system, threatening, in Addison's colorful image, to turn all the world's
sacks of (virtual) gold into worthless sticks and paper.

All true. Still, we are speaking of a mere forty years here. But
Nixon's gambit, what Hudson calls "debt imperialism," has already
come under considerable strain. The first casualty was precisely the
imperial bureaucracy dedicated to the protection of creditors (other
than those that were owed money by the United States). IMF policies
of insisting that debts be repaid almost exclusively from the pockets

(1971-THE BEGINNING .

369

of the poor were met by an equally global movement of social rebel-
lion (the so-called "anti-globalization movement" — though the name
is profoundly deceptive), followed by outright fiscal rebellion in both
East Asia and Latin America. By 2000, East Asian countries had begun
a systematic boycott of the IMF. In 2002, Argentina committed the
ultimate sin: they defaulted — and got away with it. Subsequent U.S.
military adventures were clearly meant to terrify and overawe, but they
do not appear to have been very successful: partly because, to finance
them, the United States had to turn not just to its military clients, but
increasingly, to China, its chief remaining military rival. After the near-
total collapse of the U.S. financial industry, which despite having been
very nearly granted rights to make up money at will, still managed to
end up with trillions in liabilities it could not pay, bringing the world
economy to a standstill, eliminating even the pretense that debt impe-
rialism guaranteed stability.

Just to give a sense of how extreme a financial crisis we are talking
about, here are some statistical charts culled from the pages of the St.
Louis Federal Reserve web page.17

Here is the amount of U.S. debt held overseas:

Meanwhile, private U.S. banks reacted to the crash by abandon-
ing any pretense that we are dealing with a market economy, shifting
all available assets into the coffers of the Federal Reserve itself, which
purchased U.S. Treasuries:

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Board of Governors Total Reserves, Adjusted for Changes in Reserve Requirements
(TRARR); Source: Board of Governors of the Federal Reserve System

1,000

200

Shaded areas indicate U.S. recessions.

Allowing them, through yet another piece of arcane magic that none
of us could possibly understand, to end up, after an initial near-$400-
billion dip, with far larger reserves than they had ever had before.

Non-Borrowed Reserves of Depository Institutions (BOGNONBR)
Source: Board of Governors of the Federal Reserve System

Shaded areas indicate U.S. recessions.

At this point, some U.S. creditors clearly feel they are finally in a posi-
tion to demand that their own political agendas be taken into account.

(1971-THE BEGINNING. . .)

371

CHINA WARNS U.S. ABOUT DEBT MONETIZATION

Seemingly everywhere he went on a recent tour of China,
Dallas Fed President Richard Fisher was asked to deliver a
message to Federal Reserve Chairman Ben Bernanke: "stop cre-
ating credit out of thin air to purchase U.S. Treasuries."18

Again, it's never clear whether the money siphoned from Asia to
support the U.S. war machine is better seen as "loans" or as "tribute."
Still, the sudden advent of China as a major holder of U.S. treasury
bonds has clearly altered the dynamic. Some might question why, if
these really are tribute payments, the United States' major rival would
be buying treasury bonds to begin with — let alone agreeing to various
tacit monetary arrangements to maintain the value of the dollar, and
hence, the buying power of American consumers." But I think this is a
perfect case in point of why taking a very long-term historical perspec-
tive can be so helpful.

From a longer-term perspective, China's behavior isn't puzzling
at all. In fact it's quite true to form. The unique thing about the Chi-
nese empire is that it has, since the Han dynasty at least, adopted a
peculiar sort of tribute system whereby, in exchange for recognition
of the Chinese emperor as world-sovereign, they have been willing to
shower their client states with gifts far greater than they receive in re-
turn. The technique seems to have been developed almost as a kind of
trick when dealing with the "northern barbarians" of the steppes, who
always threatened Chinese frontiers: a way to overwhelm them with
such luxuries that they would become complacent, effeminate, and
unwarlike. It was systematized in the "tribute trade" practiced with
client states like Japan, Taiwan, Korea, and various states of Southeast
Asia, and for a brief period from 1405 to 1433, it even extended to a
world scale, under the famous eunuch admiral Zheng He. He led a
series of seven expeditions across the Indian Ocean, his great "treasure
fleet" — in dramatic contrast to the Spanish treasure fleets of a cen-
tury later — carrying not only thousands of armed marines, but endless
quantities of silks, porcelain, and other Chinese luxuries to present to
those local rulers willing to recognize the authority of the emperor.20
All this was ostensibly rooted in an ideology of extraordinary chauvin-
ism ("What could these barbarians possibly have that we really need,
anyway?"), but, applied to China's neighbors, it proved extremely wise
policy for a wealthy empire surrounded by much smaller but poten-
tially troublesome kingdoms. In fact, it was such wise policy that the
U.S. government, during the Cold War, more or less had to adopt it,

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creating remarkably favorable terms of trade for those very states —
Korea, Japan, Taiwan, certain favored allies in Southeast Asia — that
had been the traditional Chinese tributaries; in this case, in order to
contain China.2'

Bearing all this in mind, the current picture begins to fall easily
back into place. When the United States was far and away the predom-
inant world economic power, it could afford to maintain Chinese-style
tributaries. Thus these very states, alone amongst U.S. military protec-
torates, were allowed to catapult themselves out of poverty and into
first-world status.22 After 1971, as U.S. economic strength relative to the
rest of the world began to decline, they were gradually transformed
back into a more old-fashioned sort of tributary. Yet China's getting in
on the game introduced an entirely new element. There is every reason
to believe that, from China's point of view, this is the first stage of
a very long process of reducing the United States to something like a
traditional Chinese client state. And of course, Chinese rulers are not,
any more than the rulers of any other empire, motivated primarily by
benevolence. There is always a political cost, and what that headline
marked was the first glimmerings of what that cost might ultimately be.

All that I have said so far merely serves to underline a reality that
has come up constantly over the course of this book: that money has
no essence. It's not "really" anything; therefore, its nature has always
been and presumably always will be a matter of political conten-
tion. This was certainly true throughout earlier stages of U.S. history,
incidentally — as the endless nineteenth-century battles between gold-
bugs, greenbackers, free bankers, bi-metallists and silverites so vividly
attest — or, for that matter, the fact that American voters were so suspi-
cious of the very idea of central banks that the Federal Reserve system
was only created on the eve of World War I, three centuries after the
Bank of England. Even the monetization of the national debt is, as I've
already noted, double-edged. It can be seen — as Jefferson saw it — as
the ultimate pernicious alliance of warriors and financiers; but it also
opened the way to seeing government itself as a moral debtor, of free-
dom as something literally owed to the nation. Perhaps no one put it so
eloquently as Martin Luther King Jr., in his "I Have a Dream" speech,
delivered on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in 1963:

In a sense we've come to our nation's capital to cash a check.
When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words

(1971-THE BEGINNING

373

of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they
were signing a promissory note to which every American was
to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men, yes, black
men as well as white men, would be guaranteed the "unalien-
able Rights" of "Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness." It
is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory
note, insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of
honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro
people a bad check, a check which has come back marked
"insufficient funds."

One can see the great crash of 2008 in the same light — as the out-
come of years of political tussles between creditors and debtors, rich
and poor. True, on a certain level, it was exactly what it seemed to
be: a scam, an incredibly sophisticated Ponzi scheme designed to col-
lapse in the full knowledge that the perpetrators would be able to force
the victims to bail them out. On another level it could be seen as the
culmination of a battle over the very definition of money and credit.

By the end of World War II, the specter of an imminent working-
class uprising that had so haunted the ruling classes of Europe and
North America for the previous century had largely disappeared. This
was because class war was suspended by a tacit settlement. To put it
crudely: the white working class of the North Atlantic countries, from
the United States to West Germany, were offered a deal. If they agreed
to set aside any fantasies of fundamentally changing the nature of the
system, then they would be allowed to keep their unions, enjoy a wide
variety a social benefits (pensions, vacations, health care . . .), and, per-
haps most important, through generously funded and ever-expanding
public educational institutions, know that their children had a reason-
able chance of leaving the working class entirely. One key element in
all this was a tacit guarantee that increases in workers' productivity
would be met by increases in wages: a guarantee that held good until
the late 1970s. Largely as a result, the period saw both rapidly rising
productivity and rapidly rising incomes, laying the basis for the con-
sumer economy of today.

Economists call this the "Keynesian era" since it was a time in
which John Maynard Keynes' economic theories, which already formed
the basis of Roosevelt's New Deal in the United States, were adopted
by industrial democracies pretty much everywhere. With them came
Keynes' rather casual attitude toward money. The reader will recall
that Keynes fully accepted that banks do, indeed, create money "out of
thin air," and that for this reason, there was no intrinsic reason that

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government policy should not encourage this during economic down-
turns as a way of stimulating demand — a position that had long been
dear to the heart of debtors and anathema to creditors.

Keynes himself had in his day been known to make some fairly
radical noises, for instance calling for the complete elimination of that
class of people who lived off other people's debts — the "the euthanasia
of the rentier," as he put it — though all he really meant by this was
their elimination through a gradual reduction of interest rates. As in
so much of Keynesianism, this was much less radical than it first ap-
peared. Actually it was thoroughly in the great tradition of political
economy, hearkening back to Adam Smith's ideal of a debtless Utopia
but especially David Ricardo's condemnation of landlords as parasites,
their very existence inimical to economic growth. Keynes was simply
proceeding along the same lines, seeing rentiers as a feudal holdover
inconsistent with the true spirit of capital accumulation. Far from a
revolution, he saw it as the best way of avoiding one:

I see, therefore, the rentier aspect of capitalism as a transi-
tional phase which will disappear when it has done its work.
And with the disappearance of its rentier aspect much else in
it besides will suffer a sea-change. It will be, moreover, a great
advantage of the order of events which I am advocating, that
the euthanasia of the rentier, of the functionless investor, will
be nothing sudden . . . and will need no revolution.2'

When the Keynesian settlement was finally put into effect, after
World War II, it was offered only to a relatively small slice of the
world's population. As time went on, more and more people wanted in
on the deal. Almost all of the popular movements of the period from
1945 to 1975, even perhaps revolutionary movements, could be seen as
demands for inclusion: demands for political equality that assumed
equality was meaningless without some level of economic security. This
was true not only of movements by minority groups in North Atlantic
countries who had first been left out of the deal — such as those for
whom Dr. King spoke — but what were then called "national libera-
tion" movements from Algeria to Chile, or, finally, and perhaps most
dramatically, in the late 1960s and 1970s, feminism. At some point in
the '70s, things reached a breaking point. It would appear that capital-
ism, as a system, simply cannot extend such a deal to everyone. Quite
possibly it wouldn't even remain viable if all its workers were free wage
laborers; certainly it will never be able to provide everyone in the world
the sort of life lived by, say, a 1960s auto worker in Michigan or Turin

(1971-THE BEGINNING . . .)

375

with his own house, garage, and children in college — and this was true
even before so many of those children began demanding less stultifying
lives. The result might be termed a crisis of inclusion. By the late 1970s,
the existing order was clearly in a state of collapse, plagued simultane-
ously by financial chaos, food riots, oil shock, widespread doomsday
prophecies of the end of growth and ecological crisis — all of which, it
turned out, proved to be ways of putting the populace on notice that
all deals were off.

The moment that we start framing the story this way, it's easy to
see that the next thirty years, the period from roughly 1978 to 2009,
follows nearly the same pattern. Except that the deal, the settlement,
had changed. Certainly, when both Ronald Reagan in the United States
and Margaret Thatcher in the UK launched a systematic attack on the
power of labor unions, as well as on the legacy of Keynes, it was a way
of explicitly declaring that all previous deals were off. Everyone could
now have political rights — even, by the 1990s, most everyone in Latin
America and Africa — but political rights were to become economically
meaningless. The link between productivity and wages was chopped
to bits: productivity rates have continued to rise, but wages have stag-
nated or even atrophied:24

— Productivity Wages

2.0 -1

This was accompanied, at first, by a return to "monetarism": the
doctrine that even though money was no longer in any way based in
gold, or in any other commodity, government and central-bank policy
should be primarily concerned with carefully controlling the money
supply to ensure that it acted as if it were a scarce commodity. Even as,
at the same time, the financialization of capital meant that most money

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being invested in the marketplace was completely detached from any
relation to production of commerce at all, but had become pure specu-
lation.

All this is not to say that the people of the world were not be-
ing offered something: just that, as I say, the terms had changed. In
the new dispensation, wages would no longer rise, but workers were
encouraged to buy a piece of capitalism. Rather than euthanize the
rentiers, everyone could now become rentiers — effectively, could grab a
chunk of the profits created by their own increasingly dramatic rates of
exploitation. The means were many and familiar. In the United States,
there were 4oi(k) retirement accounts and an endless variety of other
ways of encouraging ordinary citizens to play the market; but at the
same time, encouraging them to borrow. One of the guiding principles
of Thatcherism and Reaganism alike was that economic reforms would
never gain widespread support unless ordinary working people could
at least aspire to owning their own homes; to this was added, by the
1990s and 2000s, endless mortgage-refinancing schemes that treated
houses, whose value it was assumed would only rise, "like ATMs" —
as the popular catchphrase had it, though it turns out, in retrospect,
it was really more like credit cards. Then there was the proliferation
of actual credit cards, juggled against one another. Here, for many,
"buying a piece of capitalism" slithered undetectably into something
indistinguishable from those familiar scourges of the working poor: the
loan shark and the pawnbroker. It did not help here that in 1980, U.S.
federal usury laws, which had previously limited interest to between 7
and 10 percent, were eliminated by act of Congress. Just as the United
States had managed to largely get rid of the problem of political cor-
ruption by making the bribery of legislators effectively legal (it was
redefined as "lobbying"), so the problem of loan-sharking was brushed
aside by making real interest rates of 25 percent, 50 percent, or even in
some cases (for instance for payday loans) 120 percent annually, once
typical only of organized crime, perfectly legal — and therefore, enforce-
able no longer by just hired goons and the sort of people who place
mutilated animals on their victims' doorsteps, but by judges, lawyers,
bailiffs, and police.25

Any number of names have been coined to describe the new dis-
pensation, from the "democratization of finance" to the "financializa-
tion of everyday life."26 Outside the United States, it came to be known
as "neoliberalism." As an ideology, it meant that not just the market,
but capitalism (I must continually remind the reader that these are
not the same thing) became the organizing principle of almost every-
thing. We were all to think of ourselves as tiny corporations, organized

(1971-THE BEGINNING. . .) 377

around that same relationship of investor and executive: between the
cold, calculating math of the banker, and the warrior who, indebted,
has abandoned any sense of personal honor and turned himself into a
kind of disgraced machine.

In this world, "paying one's debts" can well come to seem the very
definition of morality, if only because so many people fail to do it. For
instance, it has become a regular feature of many sorts of business in
America that large corporations or even some small businesses, faced
with a debt, will almost automatically simply see what happens if they
do not pay — complying only if reminded, goaded, or presented with
some sort of legal writ. In other words, the principle of honor has thus
been almost completely removed from the marketplace.27 As a result,
perhaps, the whole subject of debt becomes surrounded by a halo
of religion.

Actually, one might even speak of a double theology, one for the
creditors, another for the debtors. It is no coincidence that the new
phase of American debt imperialism has also been accompanied by the
rise of the evangelical right, who — in defiance of almost all previously
existing Christian theology — have enthusiastically embraced the doc-
trine of "supply-side economics," that creating money and effectively
giving it to the rich is the most Biblically appropriate way to bring
about national prosperity. Perhaps the most ambitious theologian of
the new creed was George Gilder, whose book Wealth and Poverty
became a best-seller in 1981, at the very dawn of what came to be
known as the Reagan Revolution. Gilder's argument was that those
who felt that money could not simply be created were mired in an
old-fashioned, godless materialism that did not realize that just as God
could create something out of nothing, His greatest gift to humanity
was creativity itself, which proceeded in exactly the same way. Inves-
tors can indeed create value out of nothing by their willingness to ac-
cept the risk entailed in placing their faith in others' creativity. Rather
than seeing the imitation of God's powers of creation ex nihilo as
hubris, Gilder argued that it was precisely what God intended: the cre-
ation of money was a gift, a blessing, a channeling of grace; a promise,
yes, but not one that can be fulfilled, even if the bonds are continually
rolled over, because through faith ("in God we trust" again) their value
becomes reality:

Economists who themselves do not believe in the future of
capitalism will tend to ignore the dynamics of chance and faith
that largely will determine that future. Economists who distrust
religion will always fail to comprehend the modes of worship

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by which progress is achieved. Chance is the foundation of
change and the vessel of the divine.28

Such effusions inspired evangelists like Pat Robertson to de-
clare supply-side economics "the first truly divine theory of money-
creation."29

Meanwhile, for those who could not simply create money, there
was a quite different theological dispensation. "Debt is the new fat,"
Margaret Atwood recently remarked, struck by how much the adver-
tisements that surround her daily on the bus in her native Toronto had
abandoned their earlier attempts to make riders panic about the creep-
ing terrors of sexual unattractiveness, but instead turned to providing
advice on how to free oneself from the much more immediate terrors
of the repo man:

There are even debt TV shows, which have a familiar religious-
revival ring to them. There are accounts of shopaholic binges
during which you don't know what came over you and ev-
erything was a blur, with tearful confessions by those who've
spent themselves into quivering insomniac jellies of hopeless
indebtedness, and have resorted to lying, cheating, stealing,
and kiting cheques between bank accounts as a result. There
are testimonials by families and loved ones whose lives have
been destroyed by the debtor's harmful behaviour. There are
compassionate but severe admonitions by the television host,
who here plays the part of priest or revivalist. There's a mo-
ment of seeing the light, followed by repentance and a promise
never to do it again. There's a penance imposed — snip, snip
go the scissors on the credit cards — followed by a strict curb-
on-spending regimen; and finally, if all goes well, the debts are
paid down, the sins are forgiven, absolution is granted, and a
new day dawns, in which a sadder but more solvent man you
rise the morrow morn.30

Here, risk-taking is in no sense the vessel of the divine. Quite the
opposite. But for the poor it's always different. In a way, what At-
wood describes might be seen as the perfect inversion of the prophetic
voice of Reverend King's "I Have a Dream" speech: whereas the first
postwar age was about collective claims on the nation's debt to its
humblest citizens, the need for those who have made false promises
to redeem themselves, now those same humble citizens are taught to
think of themselves as sinners, seeking some kind of purely individual

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379

redemption to have the right to any sort of moral relations with other
human beings at all.

At the same time, there is something profoundly deceptive going on
here. All these moral dramas start from the assumption that personal
debt is ultimately a matter of self-indulgence, a sin against one's loved
ones — and therefore, that redemption must necessarily be a matter of
purging and restoration of ascetic self-denial. What's being shunted out
of sight here is first of all the fact that everyone is now in debt (U.S.
household debt is now estimated at on average 130 percent of income),
and that very little of this debt was accrued by those determined to find
money to bet on the horses or toss away on fripperies. Insofar as it was
borrowed for what economists like to call discretionary spending, it
was mainly to be given to children, to share with friends, or otherwise
to be able to build and maintain relations with other human beings
that are based on something other than sheer material calculation.31
One must go into debt to achieve a life that goes in any way beyond
sheer survival.

Insofar as there is a politics, here, it seems a variation on a theme
seen since the dawn of capitalism. Ultimately, it's sociality itself
that's treated as abusive, criminal, demonic. To this, most ordinary
Americans — including Black and Latino Americans, recent immigrants,
and others who were formerly excluded from credit — have responded
with a stubborn insistence on continuing to love one another. They
continue to acquire houses for their families, liquor and sound systems
for parties, gifts for friends; they even insist on continuing to hold
weddings and funerals, regardless of whether this is likely to send them
skirting default or bankruptcy — apparently figuring that, as long as
everyone now has to remake themselves as miniature capitalists, why
shouldn't they be allowed to create money out of nothing too?

Granted, the role of discretionary spending itself should not be
exaggerated. The chief cause of bankruptcy in America is catastrophic
illness; most borrowing is simply a matter of survival (if one does not
have a car, one cannot work); and increasingly, simply being able to go
to college now almost necessarily means debt peonage for at least half
one's subsequent working life.32 Still, it is useful to point out that for
real human beings survival is rarely enough. Nor should it be.

By the 1990s, the same tensions had begun to reappear on a global
scale, as the older penchant for loaning money for grandiose, state-
directed projects like the Aswan Dam gave way to an emphasis on
microcredit. Inspired by the success of the Grameen Bank in Bangla-
desh, the new model was to identify budding entrepreneurs in poor
communities and provide them with small low-interest loans. "Credit,"

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the Grameen Bank insisted, "is a human right." At the same time the
idea was to draw on the "social capital" — the knowledge, networks,
connections, and ingenuity that the poor people of the world are al-
ready using to get by in difficult circumstances — and convert it into a
way of generating even more (expansive) capital, able to grow at 5 to
20 percent annually.

As anthropologists like Julia Elyachar discovered, the result is
double-edged. As one unusually candid NGO consultant explained to
her in Cairo in 1995:

Money is empowerment. This is empowerment money. You
need to be big, need to think big. Borrowers here can be im-
prisoned if they don't pay, so why be worried?

In America we get ten offers for credit cards in the mail
every day. You pay incredible real interest rates for that credit,
something like 40 percent. But the offer is there, so you get the
card, and stuff your wallet full of credit cards. You feel good.
It should be the same thing here, why not help them get into
debt? Do I really care what they use the money for, as long as
they pay the loan back?33

The very incoherence of the quote is telling. The only unifying
theme seems to be: people ought to be in debt. It's good in itself. It's
empowering. Anyway, if they end up too empowered, we can also have
them arrested. Debt and power, sin and redemption, become almost
indistinguishable. Freedom is slavery. Slavery is freedom. During her
time in Cairo, Elyachar witnessed young graduates of an NGO train-
ing program go on strike for their right to receive start-up loans. At
the same time, just about everyone involved took it for granted that
most of their fellow students, not to mention everyone else involved in
the program, was corrupt and exploiting the system as their personal
cash cow. Here too, aspects of economic life that had been based on
longstanding relations of trust were, through the intrusion of credit
bureaucracies, becoming effectively criminalized.

Within another decade, the entire project — even in South Asia,
where it began — began to appear suspiciously similar to the U.S. sub-
prime mortgage crisis: all sorts of unscrupulous lenders piled in, all
sorts of deceptive financial appraisals were passed off to investors,
interest accumulated, borrowers tried to collectively refuse payment,
lenders began sending in goons to seize what little wealth they had
(corrugated tin roofs, for example), and the end result has been an

(1971-THE BEGINNING.

381

epidemic of suicides by poor farmers caught in traps from which their
families could never, possibly, escape.34

Just as in the 1945-1975 cycle, this new one culminated in another
crisis of inclusion. It proved no more possible to really turn everyone in
the world into micro-corporations, or to "democratize credit" in such
a way that every family that wanted to could have a house (and if you
think about it, if we have the means to build them, why shouldn't they?
are there families who don't "deserve" houses?) than it had been to
allow all wage laborers to have unions, pensions, and health benefits.
Capitalism doesn't work that way. It is ultimately a system of power
and exclusion, and when it reaches the breaking point, the symptoms
recur, just as they had in the 1970s: food riots, oil shock, financial
crisis, the sudden startled realization that the current course was eco-
logical unsustainable, attendant apocalyptic scenarios of every sort.

In the wake of the subprime collapse, the U.S. government was
forced to decide who really gets to make money out of nothing: the
financiers, or ordinary citizens. The results were predictable. Financiers
were "bailed out with taxpayer money" — which basically means that
their imaginary money was treated as if it were real. Mortgage holders
were, overwhelmingly, left to the tender mercies of the courts, under
a bankruptcy law that Congress had a year before (rather suspiciously
presciently, one might add) made far more exacting against debtors.
Nothing was altered. All major decisions were postponed. The Great
Conversation that many were expecting never happened.

We live, now, at a genuinely peculiar historical juncture. The credit
crisis has provided us with a vivid illustration of the principle set out in
the last chapter: that capitalism cannot really operate in a world where
people believe it will be around forever.

For most of the last several centuries, most people assumed that
credit could not be generated infinitely because they assumed that the
economic system itself was unlikely to endure forever. The future was
likely to be fundamentally different. Yet somehow, the anticipated rev-
olutions never happened. The basic structures of financial capitalism
largely remained in place. It's only now, at the very moment when it's
becoming increasingly clear that current arrangements are not viable,
that we suddenly have hit the wall in terms of our collective imagina-
tion.

There is very good reason to believe that, in a generation or so,
capitalism itself will no longer exist — most obviously, as ecologists

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keep reminding us, because it's impossible to maintain an engine of
perpetual growth forever on a finite planet, and the current form of
capitalism doesn't seem to be capable of generating the kind of vast
technological breakthroughs and mobilizations that would be required
for us to start finding and colonizing any other planets. Yet faced
with the prospect of capitalism actually ending, the most common
reaction — even from those who call themselves "progressives" — is sim-
ply fear. We cling to what exists because we can no longer imagine an
alternative that wouldn't be even worse.

How did we get here? My own suspicion is that we are looking at
the final effects of the militarization of American capitalism itself. In
fact, it could well be said that the last thirty years have seen the con-
struction of a vast bureaucratic apparatus for the creation and mainte-
nance of hopelessness, a giant machine designed, first and foremost, to
destroy any sense of possible alternative futures. At its root is a veri-
table obsession on the part of the rulers of the world — in response to
the upheavals of the 1960s and 1970s — with ensuring that social move-
ments cannot be seen to grow, flourish, or propose alternatives; that
those who challenge existing power arrangements can never, under any
circumstances, be perceived to win.'5 To do so requires creating a vast
apparatus of armies, prisons, police, various forms of private security
firms and police and military intelligence apparatus, and propaganda
engines of every conceivable variety, most of which do not attack alter-
natives directly so much as create a pervasive climate of fear, jingoistic
conformity, and simple despair that renders any thought of changing
the world seem an idle fantasy. Maintaining this apparatus seems even
more important, to exponents of the "free market," even than main-
taining any sort of viable market economy. How else can one explain
what happened in the former Soviet Union? One would ordinarily have
imagined that the end of the Cold War would have led to the disman-
tling of the army and the KGB and rebuilding the factories, but in fact
what happened was precisely the other way around. This is just an ex-
treme example of what has been happening everywhere. Economically,
the apparatus is pure dead weight; all the guns, surveillance cameras,
and propaganda engines are extraordinarily expensive and really pro-
duce nothing, and no doubt it's yet another element dragging the entire
capitalist system down — along with producing the illusion of an end-
less capitalist future that laid the groundwork for the endless bubbles
to begin with. Finance capital became the buying and selling of chunks
of that future, and economic freedom, for most of us, was reduced to
the right to buy a small piece of one's own permanent subordination.

(1971-THE BEGINNING.

383

In other words, there seems to have been a profound contradiction
between the political imperative of establishing capitalism as the only
possible way to manage anything, and capitalism's own unacknowl-
edged need to limit its future horizons lest speculation, predictably, go
haywire. Once it did, and the whole machine imploded, we were left in
the strange situation of not being able to even imagine any other way
that things might be arranged. About the only thing we can imagine
is catastrophe.

To begin to free ourselves, the first thing we need to do is to see our-
selves again as historical actors, as people who can make a difference
in the course of world events. This is exactly what the militarization of
history is trying to take away.

Even if we are at the beginning of the turn of a very long historical
cycle, it's still largely up to us to determine how it's going to turn out.
For instance: the last time we shifted from a bullion economy to one of
virtual credit money, at the end of the Axial Age and the beginning of
the Middle Ages, the immediate shift was experienced largely as a series
of great catastrophes. Will it be the same this time around? Presumably
a lot depends on how consciously we set out to ensure that it won't be.
Will a return to virtual money lead to a move away from empires and
vast standing armies, and to the creation of larger structures limiting
the depredations of creditors? There is good reason to believe that all
these things will happen — and if humanity is to survive, they will prob-
ably have to — but we have no idea how long it will take, or what, if it
does, it would really look like. Capitalism has transformed the world in
many ways that are clearly irreversible. What I have been trying to do
in this book is not so much to propose a vision of what, precisely, the
next age will be like, but to throw open perspectives, enlarge our sense
of possibilities; to begin to ask what it would mean to start thinking on
a breadth and with a grandeur appropriate to the times.

Let me give an example. I've spoken of two cycles of popular
movements since World War II: the first (1945-1978), about demanding
the rights of national citizenship, the second (1978-2008), over access
to capitalism itself. It seems significant here that in the Middle East, in
the first round, those popular movements that most directly challenged
the global status quo tended to be inspired by Marxism; in the sec-
ond, largely, some variation on radical Islam. Considering that Islam
has always placed debt at the center of its social doctrines, it's easy
to understand the appeal. But why not throw things open even more

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widely? Over the last five thousand years, there have been at least two
occasions when major, dramatic moral and financial innovations have
emerged from the country we now refer to as Iraq. The first was the
invention of interest-bearing debt, perhaps sometime around 3000 BC;
the second, around 800 ad, the development of the first sophisticated
commercial system that explicitly rejected it. Is it possible that we
are due for another? For most Americans, it will seem an odd ques-
tion, since most Americans are used to thinking of Iraqis either as vic-
tims or fanatics (this is how occupying powers always think about the
people they occupy), but it is worthy of note that the most prominent
working-class Islamist movement opposed to the U.S. occupation, the
Sadrists, take their name from one of the founders of contemporary
Islamic economics, Muhammad Baqir al-Sadr. True, much of what has
since come to pass for Islamic economics nowadays has proved decid-
edly unimpressive.36 Certainly in no sense does it pose a direct challenge
to capitalism. Still, one has to assume that among popular movements
of this sort, all kinds of interesting conversations about, say, the status
of wage labor must be taking place. Or perhaps it's naive to look for
any new breakthrough from the puritanical legacy of the old patriar-
chal rebellion. Perhaps it will come out of feminism. Or Islamic femi-
nism. Or from some as yet completely unexpected quarter. Who's to
say? The one thing we can be confident of is that history is not over,
and that surprising new ideas will certainly emerge.

The one thing that's clear is that new ideas won't emerge without the
jettisoning of much of our accustomed categories of thought — which
have become mostly sheer dead weight, if not intrinsic parts of the very
apparatus of hopelessness — and formulating new ones. This is why I
spent so much of this book talking about the market, but also about
the false choice between state and market that so monopolized political
ideology for the last centuries that it made it difficult to argue about
anything else.

The real history of markets is nothing like what we're taught to
think it is. The earlier markets that we are able to observe appear to
be spillovers, more or less; side effects of the elaborate administrative
systems of ancient Mesopotamia. They operated primarily on credit.
Cash markets arose through war: again, largely through tax and trib-
ute policies that were originally designed to provision soldiers, but
that later became useful in all sorts of other ways besides. It was only
the Middle Ages, with their return to credit systems, that saw the first

(1971-THE BEGINNING.

385

manifestations of what might be called market populism: the idea that
markets could exist beyond, against, and outside of states, as in those
of the Muslim Indian Ocean — an idea that was later to reappear in
China with the great silver revolts of the fifteenth century. It usually
seems to arise in situations where merchants, for one reason or anoth-
er, find themselves making common cause with common people against
the administrative machinery of some great state. But market populism
is always riddled with paradoxes, because it still does depend to some
degree on the existence of that state, and above all, because it requires
founding market relations, ultimately, in something other than sheer
calculation: in the codes of honor, trust, and ultimately community and
mutual aid, more typical of human economies.37 This in turn means
relegating competition to a relatively minor element. In this light, we
can see that what Adam Smith ultimately did, in creating his debt-free
market Utopia, was to fuse elements of this unlikely legacy with that
unusually militaristic conception of market behavior characteristic of
the Christian West. In doing so he was surely prescient. But like all ex-
traordinarily influential writers, he was also just capturing something of
the emerging spirit of his age. What we have seen ever since is an end-
less political jockeying back and forth between two sorts of populism —
state and market populism — without anyone noticing that they were
talking about the left and right flanks of exactly the same animal.

The main reason that we're unable to notice, I think, is that the
legacy of violence has twisted everything around us. War, conquest,
and slavery not only played the central role in converting human econ-
omies into market ones; there is literally no institution in our society
that has not been to some degree affected. The story told at the end of
chapter 7, of how even our conceptions of "freedom" itself came to be
transformed, through the Roman institution of slavery, from the ability
to make friends, to enter into moral relations with others, into inco-
herent dreams of absolute power, is only perhaps the most dramatic
instance — and most insidious, because it leaves it very hard to imagine
what meaningful human freedom would even be like.38

If this book has shown anything, it's exactly how much violence it
has taken, over the course of human history, to bring us to a situation
where it's even possible to imagine that that's what life is really about.
Especially when one considers how much of our own daily experience
flies directly in the face of it. As I've emphasized, communism may be
the foundation of all human relations — that communism that, in our
own daily life, manifests itself above all in what we call "love" — but
there's always some sort of system of exchange, and usually, a system
of hierarchy built on top of it. These systems of exchange can take

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an endless variety of forms, many perfectly innocuous. Still, what we
are speaking of here is a very particular type of calculating exchange.
As I pointed out in the very beginning: the difference between owing
someone a favor, and owing someone a debt, is that the amount of
a debt can be precisely calculated. Calculation demands equivalence.
And such equivalence — especially when it involves equivalence between
human beings (and it always seems to start that way, because at first,
human beings are always the ultimate values) — only seems to occur
when people have been forcibly severed from their contexts, so much
so that they can be treated as identical to something else, as in: "seven
martin skins and twelve large silver rings for the return of your cap-
tured brother," "one of your three daughters as surety for this loan of
one hundred and fifty bushels of grain" . . .

This in turn leads to that great embarrassing fact that haunts all
attempts to represent the market as the highest form of human free-
dom: that historically, impersonal, commercial markets originate in
theft. More than anything else, the endless recitation of the myth of
barter, employed much like an incantation, is the economists' way of
fending off any possibility of having to confront it. But even a mo-
ment's reflection makes it obvious. Who was the first man to look at
a house full of objects and to immediately assess them only in terms
of what he could trade them in for in the market likely to have been?
Surely, he can only have been a thief. Burglars, marauding soldiers,
then perhaps debt collectors, were the first to see the world this way. It
was only in the hands of soldiers, fresh from looting towns and cities,
that chunks of gold or silver — melted down, in most cases, from some
heirloom treasure, that like the Kashmiri gods, or Aztec breastplates,
or Babylonian women's ankle bracelets, was both a work of art and
a little compendium of history — could become simple, uniform bits of
currency, with no history, valuable precisely for their lack of history,
because they could be accepted anywhere, no questions asked. And it
continues to be true. Any system that reduces the world to numbers
can only be held in place by weapons, whether these are swords and
clubs, or nowadays, "smart bombs" from unmanned drones.

It can also only operate by continually converting love into debt.
I know my use of the word "love" here is even more provocative, in
its own way, than "communism." Still, it's important to hammer the
point home. Just as markets, when allowed to drift entirely free from
their violent origins, invariably begin to grow into something differ-
ent, into networks of honor, trust, and mutual connectedness, so does
the maintenance of systems of coercion constantly do the opposite:
turn the products of human cooperation, creativity, devotion, love, and

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387

trust back into numbers once again. In doing so, they make it possible
to imagine a world that is nothing more than a series of cold-blooded
calculations. Even more, by turning human sociality itself into debts,
they transform the very foundations of our being — since what else are
we, ultimately, except the sum of the relations we have with others —
into matters of fault, sin, and crime, and making the world into a place
of iniquity that can only be overcome by completing some great cosmic
transaction that will annihilate everything.

Trying to flip things around by asking, "What do we owe soci-
ety?" or even trying to talk about our "debt to nature" or some other
manifestation of the cosmos is a false solution — really just a desperate
scramble to salvage something from the very moral logic that has sev-
ered us from the cosmos to begin with. In fact, it's if anything the cul-
mination of the process, the process brought to a point of veritable de-
mentia, since it's premised on the assumption that we're so absolutely,
thoroughly disentangled from the world that we can just toss all other
human beings — or all other living creatures, even, or the cosmos — in
a sack, and then start negotiating with them. It's hardly surprising
that the end result, historically, is to see our life itself as something
we hold on false premises, a loan long since overdue, and therefore,
to see existence itself as criminal. Insofar as there's a real crime here,
though, it's fraud. The very premise is fraudulent. What could possibly
be more presumptuous, or more ridiculous, than to think it would be
possible to negotiate with the grounds of one's existence? Of course it
isn't. Insofar as it is indeed possible to come into any sort of relation
with the Absolute, we are confronting a principle that exists outside of
time, or human-scale time, entirely; therefore, as Medieval theologians
correctly recognized, when dealing with the Absolute, there can be no
such thing as debt.

Conclusion:

Perhaps the World Really Does Owe You a Living

Much of the existing economic literature on credit and banking, when
it turns to the kind of larger historical questions treated in this book,
strikes me as little more than special pleading. True, earlier figures
like Adam Smith and David Ricardo were suspicious of credit systems,
but already by the mid-nineteenth century, economists who concerned
themselves with such matters were largely in the business of trying
to demonstrate that, despite appearances, the banking system really

388

DEBT

was profoundly democratic. One of the more common arguments was
that it was really a way of funneling resources from the "idle rich,"
who, too unimaginative to do the work of investing their own money,
entrusted it to others, to the "industrious poor" — who had the energy
and initiative to produce new wealth. This justified the existence of
banks, but it also strengthened the hand of populists who demanded
easy money policies, protections for debtors, and so on — since, if times
were rough, why should the industrious poor, the farmers and artisans
and small businessmen, be the ones to suffer?

This gave rise to a second line of argument: that no doubt the rich
were the major creditors in the ancient world, but now the situation
has been reversed. So Ludwig von Mises, writing in the 1930s, around
the time when Keynes was calling for the euthanasia of the rentiers:

Public opinion has always been biased against creditors. It
identifies creditors with the idle rich and debtors with the in-
dustrious poor. It abhors the former as ruthless exploiters and
pities the latter as innocent victims of oppression. It considers
government action designed to curtail the claims of the credi-
tors as measures extremely beneficial to the immense majority
at the expense of a small minority of hardboiled usurers. It did
not notice at all that nineteenth-century capitalist innovations
have wholly changed the composition of the classes of credi-
tors and debtors. In the days of Solon the Athenian, of ancient
Rome's agrarian laws, and of the Middle Ages, the creditors
were by and large the rich and the debtors the poor. But in this
age of bonds and debentures, mortgage banks, saving banks,
life insurance policies, and social security benefits, the masses
of people with more moderate income are rather themselves
creditors.39

Whereas the rich, with their leveraged companies, are now the
principal debtors. This is the "democratization of finance" argument
and it is nothing new: whenever there are some people calling for the
elimination of the class that lives by collecting interest, there will be
others to object that this will destroy the livelihood of widows and
pensioners.

The remarkable thing is that nowadays, defenders of the financial
system are often prepared to use both arguments, appealing to one or
the other according to the rhetorical convenience of the moment. On
the one hand, we have "pundits" like Thomas Friedman, celebrating
the fact that "everyone" now owns a piece of Exxon or Mexico, and

(1971-THE BEGINNING .

389

that rich debtors are therefore answerable to the poor. On the other,
Niall Ferguson, author of The Ascent of Money, published in 2009, can
still announce as one of his major discoveries that:

Poverty is not the result of rapacious financiers exploiting the
poor. It has much more to do with the lack of financial institu-
tions, with the absence of banks, not their presence. Only when
borrowers have access to efficient credit networks can they
escape from the clutches of loan sharks, and only when savers
can deposit their money in reliable banks can it be channeled
from the idle rich to the industrious poor.40

Such is the state of the conversation in the mainstream literature.
My purpose here has been less to engage with it directly than to show
how it has consistently encouraged us to ask the wrong questions.
Let's take this last paragraph as an illustration. What is Ferguson re-
ally saying here? Poverty is caused by a lack of credit. It's only if the
industrious poor have access to loans from stable, respectable banks —
rather than to loan sharks, or, presumably, credit card companies, or
payday loan operations, which now charge loan-shark rates — that they
can rise out of poverty. So actually Ferguson is not really concerned
with "poverty" at all, just with the poverty of some people, those who
are industrious and thus do not deserve to be poor. What about the
non-industrious poor? They can go to hell, presumably (quite literally,
according to many branches of Christianity). Or maybe their boats will
be lifted somewhat by the rising tide. Still, that's clearly incidental.
They're undeserving, since they're not industrious, and therefore what
happens to them is really beside the point.

For me, this is exactly what's so pernicious about the morality of
debt: the way that financial imperatives constantly try to reduce us
all, despite ourselves, to the equivalent of pillagers, eyeing the world
simply for what can be turned into money — and then tell us that it's
only those who are willing to see the world as pillagers who deserve
access to the resources required to pursue anything in life other than
money. It introduces moral perversions on almost every level. ("Cancel
all student loan debt? But that would be unfair to all those people who
struggled for years to pay back their student loans!" Let me assure
the reader that, as someone who struggled for years to pay back his
student loans and finally did so, this argument makes about as much
sense as saying it would be "unfair" to a mugging victim not to mug
their neighbors too.)

390

DEBT

The argument might perhaps make sense if one agreed with the un-
derlying assumption — that work is by definition virtuous, since the ulti-
mate measure of humanity's success as a species is its ability to increase
the overall global output of goods and services by at least 5 percent
per year. The problem is that it is becoming increasingly obvious that
if we continue along these lines much longer, we're likely to destroy
everything. That giant debt machine that has, for the last five centuries,
reduced increasing proportions of the world's population to the moral
equivalent of conquistadors would appear to be coming up against
its social and ecological limits. Capitalism's inveterate propensity to
imagine its own destruction has morphed, in the last half-century, into
scenarios that threaten to bring the rest of the world down with it.
And there's no reason to believe that this propensity is ever going to
go away. The real question now is how to ratchet things down a bit,
to move toward a society where people can live more by working less.

I would like, then, to end by putting in a good word for the non-
industrious poor.41 At least they aren't hurting anyone. Insofar as the
time they are taking time off from work is being spent with friends and
family, enjoying and caring for those they love, they're probably im-
proving the world more than we acknowledge. Maybe we should think
of them as pioneers of a new economic order that would not share our
current one's penchant for self-destruction.

In this book I have largely avoided making concrete proposals, but let
me end with one. It seems to me that we are long overdue for some
kind of Biblical-style Jubilee: one that would affect both international
debt and consumer debt. It would be salutary not just because it would
relieve so much genuine human suffering, but also because it would
be our way of reminding ourselves that money is not ineffable, that
paying one's debts is not the essence of morality, that all these things
are human arrangements and that if democracy is to mean anything,
it is the ability to all agree to arrange things in a different way. It is
significant, I think, that since Hammurabi, great imperial states have
invariably resisted this kind of politics. Athens and Rome established
the paradigm: even when confronted with continual debt crises, they
insisted on legislating around the edges, softening the impact, elimi-
nating obvious abuses like debt slavery, using the spoils of empire to
throw all sorts of extra benefits at their poorer citizens (who, after all,
provided the rank and file of their armies), so as to keep them more or
less afloat — but all in such a way as never to allow a challenge to the

(1971-THE BEGINNING .

391

principle of debt itself. The governing class of the United States seems
to have taken a remarkably similar approach: eliminating the worst
abuses (e.g., debtors' prisons), using the fruits of empire to provide
subsidies, visible and otherwise, to the bulk of the poulation; in more
recent years, manipulating currency rates to flood the country with
cheap goods from China, but never allowing anyone to question the
sacred principle that we must all pay our debts.

At this point, however, the principle has been exposed as a flagrant
lie. As it turns out, we don't "all" have to pay our debts. Only some of
us do. Nothing would be more important than to wipe the slate clean for
everyone, mark a break with our accustomed morality, and start again.

What is a debt, anyway? A debt is just the perversion of a promise.
It is a promise corrupted by both math and violence. If freedom (real
freedom) is the ability to make friends, then it is also, necessarily, the
ability to make real promises. What sorts of promises might genuinely
free men and women make to one another? At this point we can't even
say. It's more a question of how we can get to a place that will allow
us to find out. And the first step in that journey, in turn, is to accept
that in the largest scheme of things, just as no one has the right to tell
us our true value, no one has the right to tell us what we truly owe.

NOTES

Chapter One

1. With the predictable results that
they weren't actually built to make it
easier for Malagasy people to get around
in their own country, but mainly to get
products from the plantations to ports to
earn foreign exchange to pay for building
the roads and railways to begin with.

2. The United States, for example, only
recognized the Republic of Haiti in i860.
France doggedly held on to the demand
and the Republic of Haiti was finally
forced to pay the equivalent of $21 billion
between 1925 and 1946, during most of
which time they were under U.S. military
occupation.

3. Hallam 1866 V: 269-70. Since the
government did not feel it appropriate to
pay for the upkeep of improvidents, pris-
oners were expected to furnish the full
cost of their own imprisonment. If they
couldn't, they simply starved to death.

4. If we consider tax responsibilities to
be debts, it's the overwhelming majority —
and if nothing else the two are closely re-
lated, since over the course history, the
need to assemble money for tax payments
has always been the most frequent reason
for falling into debt.

5. Finley 1960:63; 1963:24; 1974:80;
1981:106; 1983:108. And these are only
the ones I managed to track down. What
he says for Greece and Rome would ap-
pear to be equally true of Japan, India, or
China.

6. Galey 1983.

7. Jacques de Vitry, in Le Goff 1990:64.

8. Kyokai, Record of Miraculous
Events in japan (c. 822 ad), Tale 26,
cited in LaFleur 1986:36. Also Nakamura
1996:257-59.

9. ibid:36

10. ibid:37.

11. Simon Johnson, the IMF's chief
economist at the time, put it concisely in
a recent article in The Atlantic: "Regula-
tors, legislators, and academics almost all
assumed that the managers of these banks
knew what they were doing. In retrospect,
they didn't. AIG's Financial Products di-
vision, for instance, made $2.5 billion in
pretax profits in 2005, largely by selling
underpriced insurance on complex, poorly
understood securities. Often described as
'picking up nickels in front of a steamroll-
er,' this strategy is profitable in ordinary
years, and catastrophic in bad ones. As of
last fall, AIG had outstanding insurance
on more than $400 billion in securities.
To date, the U.S. government, in an ef-
fort to rescue the company, has commit-
ted about $180 billion in investments and
loans to cover losses that AIG's sophisti-
cated risk modeling had said were virtu-
ally impossible." (Johnson 2010) Johnson
of course passes over the possibility that
AIG knew perfectly well what was even-
tually going to happen, but simply didn't
care, since they knew the steamroller was
going to flatten someone else.

12. In contrast, England already had a
national bankruptcy law in 1571. An at-
tempt to create a U.S. federal bankruptcy

394

NOTES

law in 1800 foundered; there was one
briefly in place between 1867 and 1878,
aimed to relieve indebted Civil War vet-
erans, but it was eventually abolished
on moral grounds (see Mann 2002 for a
good recent history). Bankruptcy reform
in America is more likely to make the
terms harsher than the other way around,
as with the 2005 reforms, which Congress
passed, on industry urgings, just before
the great credit crash.

13. The mortgage relief fund set up
after the bailout, for example, has only
provided aid to a tiny percentage of claim-
ants, and there has been no movement
toward liberalization of bankruptcy laws
that had, in fact, been made far harsher,
under financial industry pressure, in 2005,
just two years before the meltdown.

14. "In Jail for Being in Debt," Chris
Serres 8c Glenin Howatt, Minneapolis-St.
Paul Star Tribune, June 9, 2010, www
.startribune.com/local/95692619.html.

15. "IMF warns second bailout
would 'threaten democracy.'" Angela
Jameson and Elizabeth Judge, business
.timesonline.co.uk/tol/business/eco
nomics/article6928i47.ece#cid = OTC
-RSS&attr=n85799, accessed November
25, 2009

Chapter Two

L Case, Fair, Gartner, & Heather
1996:564. Emphasis in the original.

2. op cit.

3. Begg, Fischer, and Dornbuch
(2005:384); Maunder, Myers, Wall, and
Miller (1991:310); Parkin & King (1995:65).

4. Stiglitz and Driffill 2000:521. Em-
phasis again in the original.

5. Aristotle Politics 1. 9.1257

6. Neither is it clear we are really
speaking of barter here. Aristotle used the
term metadosis, which in his day normally
meant "sharing" or "sharing out." Since
Smith, this has usually been translated
"barter," but as Karl Polanyi (19573:93)

has long since emphasized, this is probably
inaccurate, unless Aristotle was introduc-
ing an entirely new meaning for the term.
Theorists of the origin of Greek money
from Laum (1924) to Seaford (2004) have
emphasized that customs of apportioning
goods (e.g., war booty, sacrificial meat),
probably did play a key role in the devel-
opment of Greek currency. (For a critique
of the Aristotelian tradition, which does
assume Aristotle is talking about barter,
see Fahazmanesh 2006.)

7. See Jean-Michel Servet (1994, 2001)
for this literature. He also notes that in
the eighteenth century, these accounts sud-
denly vanished, to be replaced by endless
sightings of "primitive barter" in accounts
of Oceania, Africa, and the Americas.

8. Wealth of Nations I.2.1-2. As we'll
see, the line seems to be taken from much
older sources.

9. "If we should enquire into the prin-
ciple of human mind on which this dispo-
sition of trucking is founded, it is clearly
the natural inclination every one has to
persuade. The offering of a shilling, which
to us appears to have so plain and simple
meaning, is in reality offering an argument
to persuade one to do so and so as it is for
his interest" {Lectures on Jurisprudence,
56) It's fascinating to note that the as-
sumption that the notion that exchange
is the basis of our mental functions, and
manifests itself both in language (as the
exchange of words) and economics (as the
exchange of material goods) goes back to
Smith. Most anthropologists attribute it
to Claude Levi-Strauss (1963:296).

10. The reference to shepherds implies
he may be referring to another part of the
world, but elsewhere his examples, for in-
stance of trading deer for beaver, make it
clear he's thinking of the Northeast wood-
lands of North America.

11. Wealth of Nations I.4.2.

12. Wealth of Nations I.4.3.

13. Wealth of Nations I.4.7.

14. The idea of an historical sequence
from barter to money to credit actually
seems to appear first in the lectures of an

NOTES

395

Italian banker named Bernardo Davanzati
(1529-1606; so Waswo 1996); it was de-
veloped as an explicit theory by German
economic historians: Bruno Hildebrand
(1864), who posited a prehistoric stage of
barter, an ancient stage of coinage, and
then, after some reversion to barter in the
Middle Ages, a modern stage of credit
economy. It took canonical form in the
work of his student, Karl Bttcher (1907).
The sequence has now become universally
accepted common sense, and it reappears
in at least tacit form in Marx, and ex-
plicitly in Simmel — again, despite the fact
that almost all subsequent historical re-
search has proved it wrong.

15. Though they did make an impres-
sion on many others. Morgan's work in
particular (1851, 1877, 1881), which empha-
sized both collective property rights and
the extraordinary importance of women,
with women's councils largely in con-
trol of economic life, so impressed many
radical thinkers — included Marx and
Engels — that they became the basis of a
kind of counter-myth, of primitive com-
munism and primitive matriarchy.

16. Anne Chapman' (1980) goes if any-
thing further, noting that if pure barter
is to be defined as concerned only with
swapping objects, and not with rearrang-
ing relations between people, it's not clear
that it has ever existed. See also Heady
2005.

17. Levi-Strauss 1943; the translation is
from Servet 1982:33.

18. One must imagine the temptation
for a sexual variety must be fairly strong,
for young men and women accustomed
to spending almost all of their time with
maybe a dozen other people the same age.

19. Berndt 1951:161, cf. Gudeman 2001:
124-25, who provides an analysis quite
similar to my own.

20. Berndt 1951:162.

21. Though as we will note later, it's
not exactly as if international business
deals now never involve music, danc-
ing, food, drugs, high-priced hookers, or
the possibility of violence. For a random

example underlining the last two, see Per-
kins 2005.

22. Lindholm 1982:116.

23. Servet 2001:20-21 compiles an enor-
mous number of such terms.

24. The point is so obvious that it's
amazing it hasn't been made more often.
The only classical economist I'm aware
of who appears to have considered the
possibility that deferred payments might
have made barter unnecessary is Ralph
Hawtrey (1928:2, cited in Einzig 1949:375).
All others simply assume, for no reason,
that all exchanges even between neighbors
must have necessarily been what econo-
mists like to call "spot trades."

25. Bohannan 1955, Barth 1969. cf.
Munn 1986, Akin & Robbins 1998. A good
summary of the concept can be found in
Gregory 1982:48-49. Gregory gives one
example of a highland Papua New Guinea
system with six ranks of valuables, with
live pigs and cassowary birds on the top
rank, "pearl-shell pendants, pork sides,
stone axes, cassowary-plume headdresses,
and cowrie-shell headbands" on the sec-
ond, and so on. Ordinarily items of items
of consumption are confined to the last
two, which consist of luxury foods and
staple vegetable foods, respectively.

26. See Servet 1998, Humphries 1985.

27. The classic essay here is Radford
1945-

28. In the 1600s, at least, actually
called the old Carolingian denominations
"imaginary money" — everyone persist-
ing in using pounds, shillings, and pence
(or livres, deniers, and sous) for the in-
tervening 800 years, despite the fact that
for most of that period, actual coins were
entirely different, or simply didn't exist
(Einaudi 1936).

29. Other examples of barter coexist-
ing with money: Orlove 1986; Barnes &
Barnes 1989.

30. One of the disadvantages of hav-
ing your book becomes a classic is that
often, people will actually check out such
examples. (One of the advantages is that
even if they discover you were mistaken,

396

NOTES

people will continue to cite you as an au-
thority anyway.)

31. Innes 1913:378. He goes on to ob-
serve: "A moment's reflection shows that
a staple commodity could not be used as
money, because ex hypothesi, the medi-
um of exchange is equally receivable by
all members of the community. Thus if
the fishers paid for their supplies in cod,
the traders would equally have to pay for
their cod in cod, an obvious absurdity."

32. The temples appear to have come
first; the palaces, which became increas-
ingly important over time, took over their
system of administration.

33. Smith was not dreaming about
these: the current technical term for such
ingots is "hacksilber" (e.g., Balmuth 2001).

34. Compare Grierson 1977:17 for
Egyptian parallels.

35. e.g., Hudson 2002:25, 2004:114

36. Innes 1913:381

37. Peter Spufford's monumental Mon-
ey and Its Use in Medieval Europe (1988),
which devotes hundreds of pages to gold
and silver mining, mints, and debasement
of coinage, makes only two or three men-
tions of various sorts of lead or leather to-
ken money or minor credit arrangements
by which ordinary people appear to have
conducted the overwhelming majority
of their daily transactions. About these,
he says, "we can know next to nothing"
(1988:336). An even more dramatic exam-
ple is the tally-stick, of which we will hear
a good deal: the use of tallies instead of
cash was widespread in the Middle Ages,
but there has been almost no systematic
research on the subject, especially outside
England.

Chapter Three

L Heinsohn & Steiger (1989) even sug-
gest the main reason their fellow econo-
mists haven't abandoned the story is that
anthropologists have not yet provided
an equally compelling alternative. Still,

almost all histories of money continue
to begin with fanciful accounts of barter.
Another expedient is to fall back on pure
circular definitions: if "barter" is an eco-
nomic transaction that does not employ
currency, then any economic transaction
that doesn't involve currency, whatever
its form or content, must be barter. Glyn
Davies (1996:11-13) thus describes even
Kwakiutl potlatches as "barter."

2. We often forget that there was a
strong religious element in all this. New-
ton himself was in no sense an atheist —
in fact, he tried to use his mathematical
abilities to confirm that the world really
had been created, as Bishop Ussher had
earlier argued, sometime around October
23, 4004 BC.

3. Smith first uses the phrase "invis-
ible hand" in his Astronomy (III.2), but in
Theory of Moral Sentiments IV.1.10, he is
explicit that the invisible hand of the mar-
ket is that of "Providence." On Smith's
theology in general see Nicholls 2003:35-
43; on its possible connection to Medieval
Islam, see chapter 10 below.

4. Samuelson 1948:49. See Heinsohn
and Steiger 1989 for a critique of this posi-
tion; also Ingham 2004.

5. Pigou 1949. Boianovsky 1993 pro-
vides a history of the term.

6. "We do not know of any economy
in which systematic barter takes place
without the presence of money" (Fay-
azmanesh 2006:87) — by which he means,
in the sense of money of account.

7. On the government role of fostering
the "self-regulating market" in general,
see Polanyi 1949. The standard economic
orthodoxy, that if the government just
gets out of the way, a market will natu-
rally emerge, without any need to create
appropriate legal, police, and political
institutions first, was dramatically dis-
proved when free-market ideologues tried
to impose this model in the former Soviet
Union in the 1990s.

8. Innes as usual puts it nicely: "The
eye has never seen, nor the hand touched
a dollar. All that we can touch or see is a

NOTES

397

promise to pay or satisfy a debt due for an
amount called a dollar." In the same way,
he notes, "All our measures are the same.
No one has ever seen on ounce or a foot
or an hour. A foot is the distance between
two fixed points, but neither the distance
nor the points have a corporeal existence"
(1914:155).

9. Note that this does assume some
means of calculating such values — that
is, that money of account of some sort
already exists. This might seem obvious,
but remarkable numbers of anthropolo-
gists seem to have missed it.

10. To give some sense of scale, even
the relatively circumscribed commercial
city-state of Hong Kong currently has
roughly $23.3 billion in circulation. At
roughly 7 million people, that's more than
three thousand Hong Kong dollars per
inhabitant.

11. "State theory may be traced to the
early nineteenth century and to [Adam]
Muller's New Theory of Money, which
attempted to explain money value as an
expression of communal trust and nation-
al will, and culminated in [G.F.] Knapp's
State Theory of Money, first published
in German in 1905. Knapp considered it
absurd to attempt to understand money
'without the idea of the state.' Money
is not a medium that emerges from ex-
change. It is rather a means for account-
ing for and settling debts, the most im-
portant of which are tax debts" (Ingham
2004:47.) Ingham's book is an admirable
statement of the Chartalist position, and
much of my argument here can be found
in much greater detail in it. However, as
will later become apparent, I also part
company with him in certain respects.

12. In French: livres, sous, and deniers.

13. Einaudi 1936. Cipolla (1967) calls it
"ghost money."

14. On tallies: Jenkinson 1911, 1924;
Innes 1913; Grandell 1977; Baxter 1989;
Stone 2005.

15. Snell (1919:240) notes that kings
while touring their domains would some-
times seize cattle or other goods by right

of "preemption" and then pay in tallies,
but it was very difficult to get their rep-
resentatives to later pay up: "Subjects
were compelled to sell; and the worst of
it was that the King's purveyors were in
the habit of paying not in cash down,
but by means of an exchequer tally, or a
beating ... In practice it was found no
easy matter to recover under this system,
which lent itself to the worst exactions,
and is the subject of numerous complaints
in our early popular poetry."

16. It is also interesting to note, in this
regard, that the Bank of England still kept
their own internal accounts using tally
sticks in Adam Smith's time, and only
abandoned the practice in 1826.

17. See Engels (1978) for a classic study
of this sort of problem.

18. Appealing particularly to debtors,
who were understandably drawn to the
idea that debt is simply a social arrange-
ment that was in no sense immutable but
created by government policies that could
just as easily be reshuffled — not to men-
tion, who would benefit from inflationary
policies.

19. On the tax, Jacob 1987; for the
Betsimisaraka village study, Althabe 1968;
for analogous Malagasy case studies,
Fremigacci 1976, Rainibe 1982, Schlemmer
1983, Feeley-Harnik 1991. For colonial tax
policy in Africa more generally, Forstater
2005, 2006.

20. So, for instance, Heinsohn & Stei-
ger 1989:188-189.

21. Silver was mined in the Midwest
itself, and adopting bi-metallism, with
both gold and silver as potential backing
for currency, was seen as a move in the
direction of free credit money, and to allow
for the creation of money by local banks.
The late nineteenth century saw the first
creation of modern corporate capitalism in
the United States and it was fervently re-
sisted, with the centralization of the bank-
ing system being a major field of struggle,
and mutualism — popular democratic (not
profit oriented) banking and insurance
arrangements — one of the main forms of

398

NOTES

resistance. The bi-metallists were the more
moderate successors of the Greenback-
ers, who called for a currency detached
from money altogether, such as Lincoln
briefly imposed in wartime (Dighe (2002)
provides a good summary of the historical
background.)

22. They only became ruby slippers in
the movie.

23. Some have even suggested that
Dorothy herself represents Teddy Roos-
evelt, since syllabically, "dor-o-thee" is the
same as "thee-o-dor", only backwards.

24. See Littlefield 1963 and Rockoff
1990 for a detailed argument about The
Wizard of Oz as "monetary allegory."
Baum never admitted that the book had
a political subtext, but even those who
doubt he put one in intentionally (e.g.,
Parker 1994; cf. Taylor 2005) admit that
such a meaning was quickly attributed
to it — there were already explicit politi-
cal references in the stage version of 1902,
only two years after the book's original
publication.

25. Reagan could as easily be argued
to be a practitioner of extreme military
Keynesianism, using the Pentagon's bud-
get to create jobs and drive economic
growth; anyway, monetary orthodoxy
was abandoned very quickly even rhetori-
cally among those actually managing the
system.

26. See Ingham 2000.

27. Keynes 1930: 4-5

28. The argument is referred to as the
paradox of banking. To provide an ex-
tremely simplified version: say there was
only one bank. Even if that bank were
to make you a loan of a trillion dollars
based on no assets of its own of any kind
whatever, you would ultimately end up
putting the money back into the bank
again, which would mean that the bank
would now have one trillion in debt, and
one trillion in working assets, perfectly
balancing each other out. If the bank was
charging you more for the loan than it
was giving you in interest (which banks
always do), it would also make a profit.

The same would be true if you spent the
trillion — whoever ended up with the mon-
ey would still have to put it into the bank
again. Keynes pointed out the existence of
multiple banks didn't really change any-
thing, provided bankers coordinated their
efforts, which, in fact, they always do.

29. I might note that this assumption
echoes the logic of neoclassical economic
theory, which assumes that all basic in-
stitutional arrangements that define the
context of economic activity were agreed
to by all parties at some imaginary point
in the past, and that since then, everything
has and will always continue to exist in
equilibrium. Interestingly, Keynes explic-
itly rejected this assumption in his theory
of money (Davidson 2006). Contemporary
social contract theorists incidentally make
a similar argument, that there's no need
to assume that this actually happened; it's
enough to say it could have and act as if
it did.

30. Aglietta is a Marxist, and one of
the founders of the "Regulation School,"
Orleans, an adherent of the "economics
of convention" favored by Thevenot and
Boltanski. Primordial debt theory has been
mainly developed by a group of research-
ers surrounding economists Michel Agliet-
ta and Andre Orleans, first in La Violence
de la Monnaie (1992), which employed
a psychoanalytic, Giradian framework,
and then in a volume called Sovereignty,
Legitimacy and Money (1995) and a col-
lection called Sovereign Money (Aglietta,
Andreau, etc. 1998), co-edited by eleven
different scholars. The latter two volumes
abandon the Girardian framework for a
Dumontian one. In recent years the main
exponent of this position has been another
Regulationist, Bruno Theret (1992, 1995,
2007, 2008). Unfortunately almost none of
this material has ever been translated into
English, though a summary of many of
Aglietta's contributions can be found in
Grahl (2000).

31. For instance, Randall Wray (1990,
1998, 2000) and Stephanie Bell (1999,
2000) in the United States, or Geoffrey

NOTES

399

Ingham (1996, 1999, 2004) in the United
Kingdom. Michael Hudson and others in
the ISCANEE group have taken up ele-
ments of the idea, but have never to my
knowledge fully embraced it.

32. *R««. Malamoud (1983:22) notes
that already in the earliest text it had
both the meaning of "goods received in
return for the promise to hand back either
the goods themselves or something of at
least equivalent value", as well as "crime"
or "fault." So also Olivelle 1993:48, who
notes *rna "can mean fault, crime, or
guilt — often at the same time." It is not
however the same as the'word for "duty."
For a typical example of early prayers for
release from debt, see Atharva Veda Book
6 Hymns 117, 118, and 119.

33. Satapatha Brahmana 3.6.2.16

34. As Sylvain Levi, Marcel Mauss's
mentor, remarked, if one takes the
Brahmanic doctrine seriously, "the only
authentic sacrifice would be suicide"
(1898:133; so also A.B. Keith 1925:459).
But of course no one actually took things
that far.

35. More precisely, it offered the sac-
rificer a way to break out of a world in
which everything, including himself, was
a creation of the gods, to fashion an im-
mortal, divine body, ascend into heaven,
and thus be "born into a world he made
himself" {Satapatha Brahmana VI:2.2.27)
where all debts could be repaid, buy back
his abandoned mortal body from the gods
(see, i.e., Levi 1898:130-32, Malamoud
1983:31-32). This is certainly one of the
most ambitious claims ever made for the
efficacy of sacrifice, but some priests in
China around that time were making sim-
ilar claims (Puett 2002).

36. Translated "saints" in the text with
which I began the chapter, but since it
refers to the authors of the sacred texts,
the usage seems appropriate.

37. I am fusing here two slightly dif-
ferent versions: one in Tattiriya Sarphita
(6.3.10.5), which says that all Brahmans
are born with a debt, but only lists gods,
Fathers, and sages, leaving out the duty

of hospitality, and the other in Satapatha
Brahmana (1.7.2.1-6) that says all men are
born as a debt, listing all four — but which
seems really to be referring to males of
twice-born castes. For a full discussion:
see Malamoud 1983 and Olivelle 1993:46-
55, also Malamoud 1998.

38. Theret 1999:60-61

39. "The ultimate discharge of this
fundamental debt is sacrifice of the liv-
ing to appease and express gratitude to
the ancestors and deities of the cosmos"
(Ingham 2004:90).

40. op cit. He cites Hudson 2002:102-
3, on the terms for "guilt" or "sin," but as
we'll see the point goes back to Grierson
(1977:22-23).

41. Laum 1924. His argument about
the origin of money in Greece in temple
distributions is intriguing and has found
contemporary exponents in Seaford (2004)
and partly in Hudson (e.g., 2003) but is
really a theory of the origin of coinage.

42. More than I would ever dream
of trying to cite. There are two standard
survey works on "primitive money," by
Quiggin and by Einzig, both of which,
curiously, came out in 1949. Both are out-
dated in their analysis but contain a great
deal of useful material.

43. English "pay" is from French pay-
er, which in turn is derived from Latin pa-
care, "to pacify," "to make peace with."
Pacare in turn is related to pacer e, "to
come to terms with an injured party"
(Grierson 1977:21).

44. Grierson 1977:20.

45. In fact, as Grierson notes, the au-
thors often seemed to be intentionally
making fun of themselves, as in the Irish
text that specifies that one can demand
compensation for a bee-sting, but only if
one first deducts the cost of the dead bee
(Grierson 1977:26).

46. We have plenty of myths and
hymns from ancient Mesopotamia, too,
for instance — but most were discovered
in the ruins of ancient libraries that were
also full of records of court trials, business
contracts, and personal correspondence.

400

NOTES

In the case of the oldest Sanskrit texts,
religious literature is all we have. What's
more, since these were texts passed on
verbatim from teacher to student for
thousands of years, we can't even say with
any precision when and where they were
written.

47. Interest-bearing loans certainly ex-
isted in Mesopotamia, but they only ap-
pear in Egypt in Hellenistic times, and
in the Germanic world even later. The
text speaks of "the tribute that I owe to
Yama," which could refer to "interest,"
but the comprehensive review of early
Indian legal sources in Kane's History of
Dharmasastra (1973 111:411-461) comes to
no clear conclusion on when interest first
appeared; Kosambi (1994:148) estimates
that it might have appeared in 500 BC but
admits this is a guess.

48. Mesopotamia, Egypt, and China
come most immediately to mind. The no-
tion that life is a loan from the gods does
occur elsewhere: it seems to crop up spon-
taneously in ancient Greece, around the
same time as money and interest-bearing
loans do. "We are all owed as a debt to
death," wrote the poet Simonides, around
500 BC. "The sentiment that life was a
loan to be repaid by death [became] an
almost proverbial saying" (Millet 19913:6).
No Greek author to my knowledge con-
nects this explicitly to sacrifice, though
one could conceivably argue that Plato's
character Cephalus does so implicitly in
one passage of the Republic (33id).

49. Hubert and Mauss (1964) provide
a good survey of the ancient literature in
this regard.

50. Finley 1981:90

51. This was something of a legalis-
tic distinction; what it really meant in
practice was that funds levied in Persia
were technically considered "gifts," but it
shows the power of the principle (Briant
2006:398-99)

52. Pharaonic Egypt and imperial
China certainly did levy direct taxes, in
money, kind, or labor, in different pro-
portions at different times. In early India,

the gana-sangha republics do not seem to
have demanded taxes of their citizens, but
the monarchies that ultimately replaced
them did (Rhys Davies 1922:198-200). My
point is that taxes were not inevitable and
were often seen as marks of conquest.

53. I am following what I believe is
still the predominant view; though at least
in some places Palaces were in charge of
pretty much everything from quite early
on, and Temples quite subordinate (see
Maekawa 1973-1974). There is lively de-
bate about this, as with the balance of
temple, palace, clan, and individual hold-
ings in different times and places, but I
have avoided going into such debates,
however interesting, unless they have a
direct bearing on my argument.

54. I am following Hudson's interpre-
tation (2002), though others — e.g. Stein-
keller 1981, Mieroop 2002:64 — suggest
that interest may have instead originated
in rental fees.

55. For a good summary, Hudson 1993,
2002. The meaning of amargi is first not-
ed in Falkenstein (1954), see also Kramer
(196379. Lemche (1979:^34).

56. In ancient Egypt there were no
loans at interest, and we know relatively
little about other early empires, so we
don't know how unusual this was. But the
Chinese evidence is at the very least sug-
gestive. Chinese theories of money were
always resolutely Chartalist; and in the
standard story about the origins of coin-
age, since at least Han times, the mythic
founder of the Shang dynasty, upset to see
so many families having to sell their chil-
dren during famines, created coins so that
the government could redeem the children
and return them to their families (see
chapter 8, below).

57. What is sacrifice, after all, but a
recognition that an act such as taking an
animal's life, even if necessary for our sus-
tenance, is not an act to be taken lightly,
but with an attitude of humility before the
cosmos?

58. Unless the recipient is owed mon-
ey by the creditor, allowing everyone to

NOTES

401

cancel their debts in a circle. This might
seem an extraneous point, but the circu-
lar cancellation of debts in this way seems
to have been quite a common practice
in much of history: see, for instance, the
description of "reckonings" in chapter n
below.

59. I am not ascribing this position to
the authors of the Brahmanas necessarily;
only pursuing what I take to be the in-
ternal logic of the argument, in dialogue
with its authors.

60. Malamoud 1983:32.

61. Comte 1891:295

62. In France, particularly by politi-
cal thinkers like Alfred Fouille and Leon
Bourgeois. The latter, leader of the Radi-
cal Party in the 1890s, made the notion
of social debt one of the conceptual
foundations for what his philosophy of
"solidarism" — a form of radical republi-
canism that, he argued, could provide a
kind of middle-ground alternative to both
revolutionary Marxism and free-market
liberalism. The idea was to overcome the
violence of class struggle by appealing to
a new moral system based on the notion
of a shared debt to society — of which the
state, of course, was merely the adminis-
trator and representative (Hayward 1959,
Donzelot 1994, Jobert 2003). Emile Durk-
heim too was a Solidarist politically.

63. As a slogan, the expression is gen-
erally attributed to Charles Gide, the late-
nineteenth-century French cooperativist,
but became common in Solidarist circles.
It became an important principle in Turk-
ish socialist circles at the time (Aydan
2003), and, I have heard, though I have
not been able to verify, in Latin America.

Chapter Four

1. Hart 1986:638.

2. The technical term for this is "fi-
duciarity," the degree to which its value
is based not on metal content but pub-
lic trust. For a good discussion of the

fiduciarity of ancient currencies, see Sea-
ford 2004:139-146. Almost all metal coins
were overvalued. If the government set the
value below that of the metal, of course,
people would simply melt them down;
if it's set at exactly the metal value, the
results are usually deflationary. As Bruno
Theret (2008:826-27) points out, although
Locke's reforms, which set the value of
the British sovereign at exactly its weight
in silver, were ideologically motivated,
they had disastrous economic effects. Ob-
viously, if coinage is debased or the value
otherwise set too high in relation to the
metal content, this can produce inflation.
But the traditional view, where, say, the
Roman currency was ultimately destroyed
by debasement, is clearly false, since it
took centuries for inflation to occur (In-
gham 2004:102-3).

3. Einzig 1949:104; similar gambling
chits, in this case made of bamboo, were
used in Chinese towns in the Gobi desert
(ibid: 108).

4. On English token money, see Wil-
liamson 1889; Whiting 1971; Mathias
1979b.

5. On cacao, Millon 1955; on Ethopian
salt money, Einzig 1949:123-26. Both Karl
Marx (1857:223, 1867:182) and Max We-
ber (1978:673-74) were of the opinion that
money had emerged from barter between
societies, not within them. Karl Biicher
(1904), and arguably Karl Polanyi (1968),
held something close to this position, at
least insofar as they insisted that modern
money emerged from external exchange.
Inevitably there must have been some sort
of mutually reinforcing process between
currencies of trade and the local account-
ing system. Insofar as we can talk about
the "invention" of money in its modern
sense, presumably this would be the place
to look, though in places like Mesopota-
mia this must have happened long before
the use of writing, and hence the history
is effectively lost to us.

6. Einzig (1949:266), citing Kulischer
(1926:92) and Ilwof (1882:36).

7. Genealogy of Morals, 2.8.

402

NOTES

8 . As I remarked earlier, both Adam
Smith and Nietzsche thus anticipate Levi-
Strauss's famous argument that language
is the "exchange of words." The remark-
able thing here is that so many have man-
aged to convince themselves that in all
this, Nietzsche is providing a radical alter-
native to bourgeois ideology, even to the
logic of exchange. Deleuze and Guattari,
most embarrassingly, insist that "the great
book of modern ethnology is not so much
Mauss' The Gift as Nietzsche's On the
Genealogy of Morals. At least it should
be," since, they say, Nietzsche succeeds in
interpreting "primitive society" in terms of
debt, where Mauss still hesitates to break
with the logic of exchange (1972:224-25).
On their inspiration, Sarthou-Lajus (1997)
has written philosophy of debt as an al-
ternative to bourgeois ideologies of ex-
change, that, she claims, assume the prior
autonomy of the person. Of course what
Nietzsche proposes is not an alternative at
all. It's another aspect of the same thing.
All this is a vivid reminder of how easy
it is to mistake radicalized forms of our
own bourgeois tradition as alternatives to
it (Bataille [1993], who Deleuze and Guat-
tari praise as another alternative to Mauss
in the same passage, is another notorious
example of this sort of thing).

9. Genealogy of Morals 2.5.

10. Nietzsche had clearly been reading
too much Shakespeare. There is no record
of the mutilation of debtors in the ancient
world; there was a good deal of mutila-
tion of slaves, but they were by definition
people who could not be in debt. Mutila-
tion for debt is occasionally attested to in
the Medieval period, but as we'll see, Jews
tended to be the victims, since they were
largely without rights, and certainly not
the perpetrators. Shakespeare turned the
story around.

11. Genealogy of Morals 2.19.

12. Genealogy of Morals 2.21.

13. Freuchen 1961:154. It's not clear
what language this was said in, consid-
ering that Inuit did not actually have an
institution of slavery. It's also interesting

because the passage would not make sense
unless there were some contexts in which
gift exchange did operate, and therefore,
debts accrued. What the hunter is empha-
sizing is that it was felt important that this
logic did not extend to the basic means of
human existence, such as food.

14. To take an example, the Ganges
Valley in the Buddha's time was full of
arguments about the relative merits of
monarchical and democratic constitu-
tions. Gautama, though the son of a king,
sided with the democrats, and many of
the decision-making techniques used in
democratic assemblies of the time remain
preserved in the organization of Buddhist
monasteries (Muhlenberger & Paine 1997.)
Were it not for this we would not know
anything about them, or even be entirely
sure that such democratic polities existed.

15. For instance, buying back one's an-
cestral land (Leviticus 25:25, 26) or any-
thing one had given to the Temple (Leviti-
cus 27).

16. Here too, in the case of complete
insolvency, the debtor might lose his own
freedom as well. See Houston (2006) for
a good survey of the contemporary litera-
ture on economic conditions in the time
of the prophets. I here follow a synthe-
sis of his and Michael Hudson's (1993)
reconstruction.

17. See for instance, Amos 2.6, 8.2, and
Isaiah 58.

18. Nehemiah 5:3-7.

19. There continues to be intense
scholarly debate about whether these laws
were in fact invented by Nehemiah and
his priestly allies (especially Ezra), and
whether they were ever actually enforced
in any period: see Alexander 1938; North
1954; Finkelstein 1961, 1965; Westbrook
1971; Lemke 1976, 1979; Hudson 1993;
Houston 1996 for a few examples. At first
there were similar debates about whether
Mesopotamian "clean states" were actual-
ly enforced, until overwhelming evidence
was produced that they were. The bulk of
the evidence now indicates that the laws
in Deuteronomy were enforced as well,

NOTES

403

though we can never know for certain
how effectively.

20. "Every seventh year you shall make
a cancellation. The cancellation shall be
as follows: every creditor is to release the
debts that he has owing to him by his
neighbor" (Deuteronomy 15:1-3). Those
held in debt bondage were also freed. Ev-
ery 49 (or in some readings 50) years came
the Jubilee, when all family land was to
be returned to its original owners, and
even family members who had been sold
as slaves set free (Leviticus 25:9).

21. Unsurprisingly, since the need to
borrow was most often sparked by the
need to pay taxes imposed by foreign
conquerors.

22. Hudson notes in Babylonian,
clean slates were "called hubullum (debt)
masa'um (to wash), literally 'a washing
away of the debt [records],' that is, a dis-
solving of the clay tablets on which finan-
cial obligations were inscribed" (1993:19).

23. Matthew 18: 23-34.

24. To give a sense of the figures in-
volved, ten thousand talents in gold is
roughly equivalent to the entire Roman
tax receipts from their provinces in what's
now the Middle East. A hundred denarii
is 1/60 of one talent, and therefore worth
600,000 times less.

25. Opheilema in the Greek original,
which meant "that which is owed," "fi-
nancial debts," and by extension, "sin."
This was apparently used to translate the
Aramaic hoyween, which also meant both
"debt" and, by extension, "sin." The Eng-
lish here (as in all later Bible citations) fol-
lows the King James version, which in this
case is itself based on a 1381 translation of
the Lord's prayer by John Wycliffe. Most
readers will probably be more familiar
with 1559 Book of Common Prayer ver-
sion that substitutes "And forgive us our
trespasses, as we forgive them that tres-
pass against us." However, the original is
quite explicitly "debts."

26. Changing these to "spiritual debts"
doesn't really change the problem.

27. The prospect of sexual abuse in
these situations clearly weighed heavily
on the popular imagination. "Some of
our daughters are brought unto bond-
age already" protested the Israelites to
Nehemiah. Technically, daughters taken
in debt bondage were not, if virgins, ex-
pected to be sexually available to creditors
who did not wish to marry them or marry
them to their sons (Exodus 21:7-9; Wright
2009:130-33) though chattel slaves were
sexually available (see Hezser 2003), and
often the roles blurred in practice; even
where laws theoretically protected them,
fathers must often have had little means
to protect them or cause those laws to be
enforced. The Roman historian Livy's ac-
count of the abolition of debt bondage in
Rome in 326 BC, for instance, featured a
handsome young man named Caius Pub-
lilius placed in bondage for a debt he'd
inherited from his father, and who was
savagely beaten for refusing the sexual
advances of his creditor (Livy 8.28). When
he appeared on the streets and announced
what had happened to him, crowds gath-
ered and marched on the Senate to de-
mand that they abolish the institution.

28. Particularly if the slaves were for-
eigners captured in war. As we'll see, the
common belief that there were no moral
objections to slavery in the ancient world
is false. There were plenty. But aside from
certain radicals such as the Essenes, the
institution was accepted as an unfortunate
necessity.

29. Hudson (2002:37) cites the Greek
historian Diodorus Siculus (i.79) who at-
tributes this motive to the Egyptian pha-
raoh Bakenranef, though he too empha-
sizes that military considerations were
not the only ones, but that cancellations
reflected broader feelings about justice.

30. Oppenheim 1964:88. Oppenheim
suggests that interest-free loans were
more common in the Levant, and that
in Mesopotamia social equals were more
likely to charge each other interest but
on easier terms, citing an Old Assyrian
merchant who speaks of "the rate one

404

NOTES

brother charges another" (op cit). In an-
cient Greece, friendly loans between so-
cial equals were known as eranos loans,
usually of sums raised by an impromptu
mutual-aid society and not involving the
payment of interest (Jones 1956:171-73;
Vondeling 1961; Finley 1981:67-68; Millet
1991:153-155). Aristocrats often made such
loans to one another, but so did groups of
slaves trying to pool money to buy back
their freedom (Harrill 1998:167). This ten-
dency, for mutual aid to be most marked
at the very top and very bottom of the
social scale is a consistent pattern to this
day.

31. Hence the constant invocation of
the phrase "your brother," particularly in
Deuteronomy, e.g., "you shall not lend at
interest to your brother" (23:20).

Chapter Five

1. As we'll see in chapter seven, Plato
begins The Republic in exactly the same
way.

2. For a polite but devastating assess-
ment, see Kahneman 2003.

3. Homans 1958, also Blau 1964; Levi-
Strauss 1963:296. In anthropology, the
first to propose reciprocity as a universal
principle was Richard Thurnwald (1916),
but it was made famous by Malinowski
(1922).

4. One reason no known law code has
ever been known to enforce the principle;
the penalty was always there to be com-
muted to something else.

5. Atwood (2008:1). The author then
proceeds to explore the nature of our
sense of economic morality by comparing
the behavior of caged apes with middle-
class Canadian children to argue that
all human relations are indeed either ex-
change or forcible appropriation (ibid:49).
Despite the brilliance of many of its argu-
ments, the result is a rather sad testimony
to how difficult it is for the scions of the
North Atlantic professional classes not to

see their own characteristic ways of imag-
ining the world as simple human nature.

6. Seton's father, a failed shipping mag-
nate turned accountant, was, Seton later
wrote, so cold and abusive that his son
spent much of his youth in the woods try-
ing to avoid him; after paying the debt —
which incidentally came to $537.50, a tidy
but not insurmountable sum in 1881 — he
changed his name and spent much of the
rest of his life trying to develop more
healthy child-rearing techniques.

7. Rev. W.H. Beatley in Levy-Bruhl
1923:411

8. Rev. Fr. Bulleon, in Levy-Bruhl
1923:425

9. This phrase was not coined by
Marx, incidentally, but was apparently a
slogan current in the early French work-
ers' movement, first appearing in print
in the work of socialist Louis Blanc in
1839. Marx only took up the phrase in
his Critique of the Gotha Programme in
1875, and even then used it in a rather id-
iosyncratic way: for the principle he imag-
ined could apply on the level of society
as a whole once technology had reached
the point of guaranteeing absolute mate-
rial abundance. For Marx, "communism"
was both the political movement aiming
to bring about such a future society, and
that society itself. I am drawing here more
on the alternate strain of revolutionary
theory, evident most famously perhaps in
Peter Kropotkin's Mutual Aid (1902).

10. At least, unless there is some spe-
cific reason not to — for instance, a hier-
archical division of labor that says some
people get coffee and others do not.

11. What this means of course is that
command economies — putting govern-
ment bureaucracies in charge of coordi-
nating every aspect of the production and
distribution of goods and services within
a given national territory — tends to be
much less efficient than other available al-
ternatives. This is obviously true, though
if it "just doesn't work" at all, it's hard to
imagine how states like the Soviet Union
could have existed, let alone maintain

NOTES

405

themselves as world powers, in the first
place.

12. Evans-Pritchard 1940:182

13. Similarly, a middle-class pedestrian
would be unlikely to ask a gang member
for directions, and might even run in fear
if one approached him to ask for the time,
but this is again because of an assumption
of a tacit state of war existing between
them.

14. Ibid, p. 183.

15. Richards 1939:197. Max Gluckman,
remarking on such customs, concludes
that insofar as it is possible to speak of
"primitive communism," it exists in con-
sumption, rather than production, which
tends to be much more individually orga-
nized (1971:52).

16. A typical example: "if a cabin of
hungry people meets another whose pro-
visions are not entirely exhausted, the
latter share with the newcomers the little
which remains to them without waiting to
be asked, although they expose themselves
thereby to the same danger of perishing as
those whom they help ..." Lafitau 1974
Volume II:6i.

17. Jesuit Relations (1635) 8:127, c'ted
in Delage 1993:54.

18. This is a common arrangement in
certain parts of the world (particularly the
Andes, Amazonia, insular Southeast Asia,
and Melanesia), and invariably there is
some rule whereby each half is dependent
on the other for something considered es-
sential to human life. One can only marry
someone from the other side of the village,
or maybe one can only eat pigs raised on
the other side, or perhaps one side needs
people from the other side to sponsor the
rituals that initiate its male children into
manhood.

19. As I have suggested elsewhere,
Graeber 2001:159-60; cf. Mauss 1947:
104-5.

20. I'm side-stepping the whole ques-
tion of one-sided examples discussed in
Graeber 2001:218.

21. Marshall Sahlins (1972) coined
the phrase "generalized reciprocity" to

describe this sort of relation, on the prin-
ciple that if everything circulates freely,
eventually, all accounts will balance out.
Marcel Mauss was already making such
an argument in lectures back in the 1930s
(1947), but he also recognized the prob-
lems: while this might be true of Iroquois
moieties, some relationships never bal-
ance out — for instance, between mother
and child. His solution, "alternating
reciprocity" — that we repay our parents
by having children ourselves — is clearly
drawn from his study of the Vedas, but it
ultimately demonstrates that if one has al-
ready decided that all relations are based
on reciprocity, one can always define the
term so broadly as to make it true.

22. Hostis: see Benveniste 1972:72. The
Latin terminology concerning hospitality
emphasizes the absolute mastery of the
house by its (male) owner as the precon-
dition of any act of hospitality; Derrida
(2000, 2001) argues that this points to a
central contradiction in the very concept
of hospitality, since it implies an already-
existing absolute dominium or power
over others, the kind that might be seen
as taking its most exploitative form in
Lot's offering his own daughters up to
a crowd of Sodomites to dissuade them
from raping his houseguests. However,
this same principle of hospitality can be
equally well documented in societies —
such as the Iroquois — that were anything
but patriarchal.

23. Evans-Pritchard 1940:154, 158.

24. This is of course one reason why
the very rich like to associate mainly with
one another.

25. In a less hostile vein one can speak
of an exchange of prisoners, notes, or
compliments.

26. A good source on haggling: Uchen-
do 1967.

27. Bohannan 1964:47.

28. Not even a real business deal, since
these may often involve a great deal of
collective wining and dining and giving
of presents. More the sort of imaginary

406

NOTES

business deal that appears in economics
textbooks.

29. One need only glance at the vast
anthropological literature on "competitive
feasting": e.g., Valeri 2001.

30. Bourdieu 1965 is the key text, but
he repeats the main points in Bourdieu
1990:98-101.

31. Onvlee 1980:204.

32. Petronius 51; Pliny Natural History
36.195; Dio 57-"-5-7-

33. "This king is of all men the most
addicted to the making of gifts and the
shedding of blood. His gate is never with-
out some poor man enriched or some liv-
ing man executed."

34. Or even the very rich. Nelson
Rockefeller, for example, used to pride
himself on never carrying a wallet. He
didn't need one. Every now and then
when he was working late and wanted
cigarettes, he would borrow some from
the security people at the desk at Rock-
efeller Center, who would then be able
to boast that they had lent a Rockefeller
money and would rarely ask for it back.
In contrast, "the sixteenth-century Portu-
guese monarch Dom Manuel, newly rich
from the Indies trade, adopted the title
'Lord of the Conquest, Navigation, and
Commerce of Ethiopia, Arabia, Persia,
and India.' Others called him the "grocer
king." (Ho 2004:227).

35. See Graeber 2001:175-76.

36. Even between strangers it's a bit
unusual: as Servet (1981, 1982) has empha-
sized, most "primitive trade" takes place
through trade partnership and specialized
regional middlemen.

37. I frame things this way because I
am mainly interested here in economics.
If we were thinking simply of human rela-
tions, I suppose one might say that at one
extreme is killing, and at the other, giving
birth.

38. In fact, it seems essential to the na-
ture of charity that, like a gifts to a king,
it can never lead to reciprocity. Even if
it turns out that the pathetic-looking beg-
gar is really a god wandering the earth in

mortal form, or Harun al-Rashid, your re-
ward will be entirely disproportionate. Or
consider all those stories about drunken
millionaires on a binge who, when they
got their life back together, hand out fan-
cy cars or houses to their earlier benefac-
tors. It's easier to imagine a panhandler
giving you a fortune than returning an ex-
act equivalent to the dollar that you gave
him.

39. Xenophon Cyropedia VIII. 6,
Herodotus 3.8.9; see Briant 2006:193-194,
394-404, who acknowledges that some-
thing broadly along these lines probably
did take place, with a more impromptu
gift system under Cyrus and Cambyses be-
ing systematized under Darius.

40. Marc Bloch (1961:114-15), who
adds "every act, especially if it was re-
peated three or four times, was likely to
be transformed into a precedent — even if
in the first instance it had been exception-
al or even frankly unlawful."

41. The approach is often identified
with British anthropologist A.M. Hocart
(1936). The important thing is that this
does not necessarily mean that these be-
came their main or exclusive occupations:
most of the time, such people remained
simple farmers like everybody else. Yet
what they did for the king, or later, on
ritual occasions, for the community, was
seen as defining their essential nature,
their identity within the whole.

42. In fact, we may become indignant
at her for an act of stinginess we would
never even consider stingy in anyone
else — especially, ourselves.

43. A version has been published
as: Sarah Stillman, "The missing white
girl syndrome: disappeared women
and media activism" (Stillman, 2007):
publications, ox fa rn.org.uk/oxfam/
display.asp?K = oo2ji246&sf_oi = cat
_class8cst_oi=62o&sort=SORT_DATE/
d&m=84&dc=7i9

44. Karatani (2003:203-205) makes
this point compellingly. The Kwakiutl
and other First Nations of the Northwest
Coast are something of an intermediary

NOTES

407

case — aristocratic, but at least in the pe-
riod we know about, using non-coercive
means to gather resources (though Codere
1950.)

45. Georges Duby (1980) provides the
definitive history of this concept, which
goes back to much older Indo-European
ideas.

46. For a typical example of imaginary
reciprocity between father and son, see
Oliver 1955:230. Anthropological theory
buffs will notice that I am here endors-
ing Edmund Leach's (1961) position on
the "circulating connubium" problem. He
later applied the same argument to the fa-
mous "kula chain" (1983).

47. Actually, there are hierarchical re-
lations that are explicitly self-subverting:
the one between teacher and student, for
example, since if the teacher is successful
in passing her knowledge to the student,
there is no further basis for inequality.

48. Freuchen 1961: 154. It's not clear
what the original language was here, con-
sidering that the Inuit did not have an
institution of slavery. Also, the passage
would not make sense unless there were
some contexts in which gift exchange did
operate, and therefore, in which debts ac-
crued. What the hunter is emphasizing is
that it was felt important that this logic
did not extend to basic needs like food.

49. Firth 1959:411-12 (also in Graeber
2001:175). His name was Tei Reinga.

50. For one famous example: Chagnon
1996:170-76.

51. Similarly, two groups might form
an alliance by contracting a "joking rela-
tion," in which any member of one could
at least in theory make similar outrageous
demands of the other (Hebert 1958).

52. Marcel Mauss, in his famous "Es-
say on the Gift" (1924), often did, and the
results have sometimes confused debate
for generations to come.

53. Mauss 1925, the Greek source be-
ing Posidonius. As usual one does not
know how literally to take this account.
Mauss thought it likely accurate; I suspect
it might have happened once or twice.

54. As retold by William Ian Miller
(1993:15-16). The first quote is directly
from the original, Egil's Saga, chapter
78. Egil remained ambivalent about the
shield: he later took it to a wedding party
and contrived to drop it into a vat of sour
whey. Afterward, concluding it was ru-
ined, he stripped it for its raw materials.

55. See, for instance, Wallace-Hadrill
1989.

56. Blaxter 1971:127-28.

57. Another anthropologist, for in-
stance, defines patron-client relations as
"long-term contracted relations in which
the client's support is exchanged for the
patron's protection; there is an ideology
which is morally charged and appears to
rule out strict, open accounting, but both
parties keep some tacit rough account;
the goods and services exchanged are not
similar, and there is no implication of fair
exchange or balance of satisfactions, since
the client is markedly weaker in power
and needs the patron more than he is
needed by him" (Loizos 1977:115). Again,
it both is and isn't an exchange, it's both
a matter of accounting and not a matter
of accounting.

58. It's exactly the same if one takes
a job at a doughnut shop; legally, it must
be a free contract between equals, even
if in order to be able to say this we have
to maintain the charming legal fiction
that one of them is an imaginary person
named "Krispy Kreme."

59. For instance the word "should," in
English, originally derives from German
schuld, meaning "guilt, fault, debt." Ben-
veniste provides similar examples from
other Indo-European languages (1963:58).
East Asian languages such as Chinese and
Japanese rarely conflate the actual words,
but a similar identification of debt with
sin, shame, guilt, and fault can be easily
documented (Malamoud 1988).

60. Plutarch Moralia 303 B, also dis-
cussed in Finley 1981:152, Millett 19913:42.
Similarly, St. Thomas Aquinas made it a
matter of Catholic doctrine that sins were
"debts of punishment" owed to God.

408

NOTES

61. This is one reason why it's so easy
to dress up other sorts of relationships as
debts. Say one wishes to help out a friend
in desperate need of money but doesn't
want to embarrass her. Usually, the easi-
est way to do it is to provide the money
and then insist that it's a loan (and then
let both parties conveniently forget it ever
happened). Or think of all the times and
places where the rich acquire servants by
advancing what is ostensibly a loan.

62. One could argue that some equiva-
lent of "please" and "thank you" could
be identified in any human language, if
one were determined to find them, but
then the terms you find are often used so
differently — for instance, only in ritual
contexts, or to hierarchical superiors — .
that it's hard to attach much significance
to the fact. It is significant that over the
last century or so just about every human
language that is used in offices or to make
transactions in shops has had to create
terms that do function as an exact equiva-
lent of the English "please," "thank you,"
and "you're welcome."

63. In Spanish one first asks a favor
{por favor), and then says gracias, in order
affirm you recognize one has been done
for you, since it derives from the Latin
word gratia, meaning "influence, or fa-
vor." "Appreciate" is more monetary: if
you say "I really appreciate your doing
that for me," you are using a word that
derives from Latin appretiare, "to set a
price."

64. "You're welcome," first document-
ed in Shakespeare's time, derives from Old
English wilcuma, wil being "pleasure" and
cuma being "guest." This is why people
are still welcomed into a house. It is thus
like "be my guest," implying that, no,
if there is an obligation it's on my part,
as any host is obliged to be generous to
guests, and that dispatching such obliga-
tions is a pleasure in itself. Still, it's sig-
nificant that moralists rarely chide anyone
for failure to say "you're welcome" — that
one is much more optional.

65. Book I.12. This and other quotes
are from the 2006 Penguin Screech trans-
lation, in this case, p. 86.

66. Compare the Medieval Arab phi-
losopher Ibn Miskaway: "The creditor de-
sires the well-being of the debtor in order
to get his money back rather than because
of his love for him. The debtor, on the
other hand, does not take great interest in
the creditor." (in Hosseini 2003:36).

67. Appropriate, since Panurge's entire
discourse is nothing but a comical elabo-
ration of Marcelo Ficino's argument that
the entire universe is driven by the power
of love.

Chapter Six

1. From: Peter Carlson, "The Rela-
tively Charmed Life of Neil Bush," The
Washington Post, Sunday December 28,
2003, Page Doi.

2. Grierson 1977:20.

3. To be fair to Grierson, he does later
suggest that slavery played an important
part in the origins of money — though he
never speculates about the gender, which
seems significant: slave girls also served as
the highest denomination of currency in
Medieval Iceland (Williams 1937), and in
the Rig Veda, great gifts and payments are
regularly designated in "gold, cattle, and
slave girls" (Chakravarti 1985:56-57). By
the way, I say "young" because elsewhere,
when slaves are used as monetary units,
the unit is assumed to be a slave about 18-
20 years old. A cumal was considered the
equivalent in value of three milch cows or
six heifers.

4. On cumal see Nolan 1926, Einzig
1949:247-48, Gerriets 1978, 1981, 1985,
Patterson 1982:168-69, Kelly 1998:112-13.
Most merely emphasize that cumal were
just used as units of account and we don't
know anything about earlier practices. It's
notable, though, that in the law codes,
when several different commodities are
used as units of account, they will include

NOTES

409

that country's most significant exports,
and trade currency (that's why in Russian
codes, the units were fur and silver). This
would imply a significant trade in female
slaves in the period just before written
records.

5. So Bender 1996.

6. Here I am drawing on the detailed
ethnographic survey work of Alain Te-
start (2000, 2001, 2002). Testart does a
magnificent job synthesizing the evidence,
though he too — as we'll see in the next
chapter — has some equally strange blind
spots in his conclusions.

7. "Although the rhetorical phrase
'selling one's daughter into prostitution'
has wide currency . . . the actual arrange-
ment is more often presented as either
a loan to the family or an advance pay-
ment for the girl's (usually unspecified
or misrepresented) services. The interest
on these 'loans' is often 100 percent, and
the principal may be increased by other
debts — for living expenses, medical care,
bribes to officials — accrued once the girl
has begun work" (Bishop & Robinson
1998:105).

8. So Michael Hudson (cited in Wray
1999), but it's clear enough if one looks at
the language of the original: "Thou shalt
not covet thy neighbour's house, thou
shalt not covet thy neighbour's wife, nor
his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor
his ox, nor his ass, nor any thing that is
thy neighbour's" (Exodus 20:17, Deuter-
onomy 5:21).

9. Wampum is a good example: In-
dians never seem to have used it to buy
things from other members of the same
community, although it was regularly
used in conducting trade with settlers (see
Graeber 2001:117-150). Others, like Yurok
shell money or some Papuan currencies,
are widely used as currencies in addi-
tion to their social functions, but the first
seems to have emerged from the second.

10. The most important texts on the
"brideprice debate": Evans-Pritchard
1931, Raglan 1931, Gray 1968, Coma-
roff 1980, Valeri 1994. One reason why

Evans-Pritchard originally proposed to
change the name from "brideprice" to
"bridewealth" because the League of Na-
tions had in 1926 outlawed the practice as
a form of slavery (Guyer 1994).

11. On Tiv kinship and economy: Dug-
gan 1932; Abraham 1933; Downes 1933;
Akiga 1939; L. Bohannan 1952; P. Bohan-
nan 1955, 1957, 1959; P. &C L. Bohannan
1953, 1968, Tseayo 1975; Keil 1979.

12. Akiga Sai 1939:106 for a good
analysis of how this could happen. For
a later comparative reanalysis in regional
perspective, see Fardon 1984, 1985.

13. Paul Bohannan puts it: "The kern
relationship of debt between a man and
his wife's guardian is never broken, be-
cause kem is perpetual, the debt can never
be fully paid." (1957:73.) Otherwise the
account is from Akiga (1939:126-127).

14. Rospabe 1993:35.

15. Evans-Pritchard 1940:153.

16. As the ethnographer puts it, "that
they are accepting the cattle only in order
to honour him and not because they are
ready to take cattle for the life of their
dead kinsman." (1940:153)

17. Op cit 154-155-

18. Morgan 1851:332. Morgan, a law-
yer by training, is using a technical term
here, "condonation," which the Oxford
English Dictionary defines as "the volun-
tary overlooking of an offence."

19. Morgan 1851:333. The baseline
was five fathoms for a man, ten for a
woman, but other factors might intervene
(T. Smith 1983:236; Morgan 1851:331-
34; Parker 1926). On "mourning wars"
see Richter 1983; the expression "putting
his name upon the mat" is from Fenton
1978:315. Incidentally I am assuming it's
a man who dies, since these are the ex-
amples in the sources. It's not clear if
the same was done for women who died
naturally.

20. Evans-Pritchard 1940:155, 1951:109-
11; Howell 1954:71-80, Gough 1971,
Hutchinson 1996:62, 175-76.

21. Rospabe 1995:47-48, citing Peters
1947-

410

NOTES

22. On mourning war: Richter 1983.
Interestingly, something similar occurred
among the Nambikwara. I mentioned in
chapter 3 that the feasts held after barter
could lead to seductions and jealous mur-
ders; Levi-Strauss adds that the ordinary
way of resolving such murders is for the
killer to marry the victim's wife, adopt his
children, and thus, effectively, become the
person the victim used to be (1943:123).

23. Though people did use them to
commission certain fancy craft goods (say,
musical instruments) from specialists in
other villages (1963:54-55).

24. Douglas 1958: 112; also 1982:43.

25. Douglas (1963:58) estimates that a
successful man will have spent at mini-
mum 300 raffia cloths in payments, and
given away at least 300 more as gifts, by
the time he reached full social maturity.

26. As anthropologists often note, the
fact that one traces descent through the
female line does not necessarily mean that
women themselves have a lot of power.
It can; it did among the Iroquois, and it
does among Minangkabau right now. But
it doesn't necessarily.

27. Douglas 1963:144-45, which is an
adoption of 1960:3-4.

28. She was in fact a conservative
Catholic, married a Tory economist, and
tended to look with disdain on all liberal
concerns.

29. As if to hammer this home, a man
was actually considered to be owed a life-
debt for fathering female children (Doug-
las 1963:115) — that could only be paid
by allowing him to take one of his own
daughters' daughters as a pawn. This only
makes sense if we assume a principle that
only men can be owed a life, and there-
fore, in the case of women, the creation
of life was assumed to be given free. Men,
as noted, could be pawns and many were,
but they were never traded.

30. Douglas 1966:150.

31. On "village-wives," see particularly
Douglas 1951, also 1963:128-40.

32. Douglas 1963:76; compare 1951:11.
The author is clearly simply repeating her

informants' explanation for the custom:
the Lele didn't "have to" make such an
arrangement; in fact, most African societ-
ies did not.

33. Some village wives were literally
princesses, since chiefs' daughters invari-
ably chose to marry age-sets in this way.
The daughters of chiefs were allowed to
have sex with anyone they wanted, re-
gardless of age-set, and also had the right
to refuse sex, which ordinary village wives
did not. Princesses of this sort were rare:
there were only three chiefs in all Lele ter-
ritory. Douglas estimates that the number
of Lele women who became village wives,
on the other hand, was about 10 percent
(i95i)-

34. For instance: 1960:4, 1963:145-46,
168-73, 1964:303. Obviously, men could
sometimes put a great deal of physical
pressure on women, at least, if everyone
else agreed they had a moral right to do
so, but even here Douglas emphasizes
most women had a good deal of room for
maneuver.

35. On peacefulness, particularly,
1963:70-71.

36. 1963:170.

37. 1963:171.

38. Cost of slaves: 1963:36, 1982:46-47.

39. Partly, though, this was because
the main purpose of male slaves was to
be sacrificed at important men's funerals
(1963:36).

40. See Graeber 2001, chapter 4. The
great exception might seem to be the cat-
tle money of the Nuer, and similar pasto-
ral peoples. Yet even these were arguably
adornment of the person of a sort.

41. Akiga Sai 1939: 121, 158-60.

42. So too when Tiv practiced mar-
riage by capture: Akiga Sai (1939:137-41).

43. Here I'm drawing on the classic
"spheres of exchange" analysis by Paul
Bohannan (1955, 1959), supplemented by
Dorward (1976) and Guyer (2004:27-31).

44. So Akiga Sai 1939:241; P. Bohannan
1955:66, P. & L. Bohannnan 1968:233, 235.
As charisma in general: East in Akiga Sai
1939:236, Downes 1971:29.

NOTES

411

45. See Abraham 1933:26; Akiga Sai
1939:246; P. Bohannan 1958:3; Downes
1971:27.

46. On witches in general: P. Bohan-
nan 1957:187-88, 1958; Downes 1971: 32-
25. On flesh debts (or ikipindi): Abraham
1933:81-84; Downes 1971:36-40.

47. Akiga Sai 1939:257.

48. Akiga Sai 1939:260.

49. Following here Wilson 1951.

50. Paul Bohannan (1958:4) makes a
similar but not identical argument.

51. Tiv migration stories (e.g. Abra-
ham 1933:17-26; Akiga & Bohannan 1954;
P. Bohannan 1954) do not explicitly say
this, but they could easily be read this
way. Akiga's story (1939:137) about Tiv
migrants painting what looked like sores
on their women's bodies so raiders would
not take them is particularly suggestive.
Despite their lack of government, Tiv did
have a notoriously effective war organi-
zation, and as Abrahams notes (1933:19),
managed to successfully play the Fulani
and Jukun against each other by interven-
ing in their own wars with each other.

52. Some of these raids were not en-
tirely unsuccessful. For a while, it would
appear, the nearby Jukun kingdom, which
made several ultimately unsuccessful ef-
forts to incorporate the Tiv in the eigh-
teenth century, appear to have been sell-
ing Tiv captives to slave dealers operating
on the coast (Abraham 1933:19; Curtin
1965:255, 298; Latham 1973:29; Tambo
1976: 201-3.) It's doubtless significant here
that many Tiv insisted in the 1930s that
the Jukun were themselves cannibals, and
that the origins of the mbatsav "organi-
zation" lay in certain chiefly titles that
Tiv acquired from them when they finally
came to a political rapprochement (Abra-
ham i933:33-35)-

53. Jones 1958; Latham 1971; Northrup
1978:157-64; Herbert 2003:196. The fa-
mous Medieval Arab traveler Ibn Battuta,
who we've already met at the court of the
King of Singh in chapter 2, saw people
using them as money in the Niger region,
not far away, in the 1340s.

54. Herbert (2003:181) estimates that
Europeans imported about 20,000 tons of
English brass and copper into Africa be-
tween 1699 and 1865. It was manufactured
in Bristol, Cheadle, and Birmingham. The
vast majority was exchanged for slaves

55. I base this number on the fact that
152,076 slaves are known to have been ex-
ported from the Bight of Biafra as a whole
in those years (Eltis, Behrent, Richardson
Sc Klein 2000). The slave trade at Old
Calabar lasted roughly from 1650 to 1841,
during which time the port was by far the
largest in the Bight, and the exports from
the Bight itself during its height represent
about 20 percent of all Africa (Lovejoy Sc
Richardson 1999:337).

56. Sheridan 1958, Price 1980, 1989,
1991.

57. A larger variety of beads.

58. Barbot in Talbot 1926 I: 185-186.

59. Inkori (1982) demonstrates that in
the late eighteenth century, British ships
docking in Old Calabar brought on aver-
age 400 muskets each, and that between
1757 and 1806, the total number imported
into the Calabar-Cameroons region was
22,986. Rum and other liquor was, how-
ever, a very minor import.

60. One common expedient, especially
in the early years, was for merchants to
arrive at village markets with canoes full
of wares, exchange them for slaves, and
then, if they didn't come up to quota, wait
until nightfall and simply attack home-
steads along the river, carrying off anyone
they could find (Clarkson in Northrup
1978:66, also cited in Noah 1990:94.)

61. The existing scholarly literature
is of little help in reconstructing the his-
tory of how one form was transformed
into the other, since there are only works
treating pawnship either as a matter of
kinship (e.g., Douglas 1964, Fardon 1985,
1986), or of commerce (e.g., Falola &C
Lovejoy 1994), but never comparing the
two. As a result, many basic questions
remain unasked. Falola and Lovejoy, for
instance, suggest that pawns' labor func-
tions as interest, but the book contains no

412

NOTES

information on whether interest-bearing
loans even existed in the parts of Africa
where pawnship was practiced.

62. It's also clear that this sort of pawn-
ship must have developed from something
like the Lele institution. Many of the rules
are the same: for instance, much as among
the Lele, if a girl was pledged, the credi-
tor often had the option of marrying her
when she reached maturity, thus cancel-
ling the debt.

63. Lovejoy & Richardson 1999:349-
51; 2001.

64. Equiano 1789:6-13.

65. Others included the Akunakuna,
and the Efik, who were based in Calabar
itself. The Aro were Igbo-speakers, and
the region a patchwork of speakers of
Igbo and Ibibio languages.

66. On the Aro in general, see Jones
1939; Ottenberg 1958; Afigbo 1971; Ekejiu-
ba 1972; Isichei 1976; Northrup 1978; Dike
Sc Ekejiuba 1990; Nwauwa 1991.

67. Dike and Ekejiuba (1990:150) es-
timate that 70 percent of the slaves sold
to Europeans in the Bight of Biafra came
from the Aro. Most of the rest came from
the other merchant societies.

68. One twentieth-century elder re-
called, "a woman who commited adultery
would be sold by her husband and the
husband kept the money. Thieves were
sold, and the money went to the elders
whose responsibility it was to make the
decision." (Northrup 1978: 69)

69. Northrup 1978:73

70. On Ekpe as debt enforcement in
Calabar itself: Jones 1968, Latham 1973:35-
41, Lovejoy &C Richardson 1999:347-49.
On the spread of Ekpe to Arochukwe and
throughout the region: Ruel 1969:250-258,
Northrup 1978:109-110, Nwaka 1978,
Ottenberg 6c Knudson 1985. Nwaka
(1978:188) writes: "The Ekpe society, the
most widespread in the Cross River area,
formed the basis of local government. It
performed executive and judicial functions
in areas where it operated. Through the
agency of its members, punishments were
administered to public offenders, customs

enforced and the authority of the elders
upheld. Ekpe laws to some extent regulat-
ed the lives of most members of the com-
munity in such matters as the cleaning of
towns and streets, collection of debts and
other measures of public benefit."

71. Latham 1963:38.

72. Taken from Walker 1875:120

73. Ottenberg & Ottenberg 1962:124.

74. Partridge 1905:72.

75. If one were seeking a pawn, one
couldn't simply take a random child from
a neighboring village, as his or her parents
would quickly track the child down.

76. In Lovejoy & Richardson 2001:74.
For a parallel case in Ghana, see Getz
2003:85.

77. Remarkably, Akiga Sai (1939:379-
80) insists that, among the Tiv, this was
the origin of slavery: the seizing of hos-
tages from the same lineage as someone
who refused to pay a debt. Say, he says,
the debtor still refuses to pay. They will
keep their hostage fettered for a while,
then, finally, sell them in another country.
"This is the origin of slavery."

78. So Harris 1972:128 writing of an-
other Cross River district, Ikom: one of
the major suppliers of slaves for Cala-
bar. There, she notes, debtors were often
obliged to pawn themselves when mater-
nal and paternal kin intervened to prevent
them from selling off any more of their
relatives, with the result that they were
finally enslaved and sent to Calabar.

79. We do not know what proportion.
King Eyo II told a British missionary that
slaves "were sold for different reasons —
some as prisoners of war, some for debt,
some for breaking their country's laws
and some by great men who hated them"
(in Noah 1990:95). This suggests that debt
was not insignificant, especially since as
Pier Larson (2000:18) notes, all sources at
the time would list "war," since it was
considered the most legitimate. Compare
Northrup (1978:76-80).

80. Reid 1983:8

81. op cit.

82. Reid 1983:10

NOTES

413

83. Vickers (1996) provides an excel-
lent history of Bali's image in the North
Atlantic imagination, from "savage Bali"
to terrestrial paradise.

84. Geertz & Geertz 1975; Boon
1977:121-24. Belo (1936:26) cites infor-
mants in the 1920s that insisted that mar-
riage by capture was a fairly recent in-
novation, which emerged from gangs of
young men stealing women from enemy
villages and, often, demanding that their
fathers pay money to get them back.

85. Boon 1977:74

86. Covarrubias (1937:12) notes that
as early as 1619, Balinese women were in
great demand in slave markets in Reunion.

87. Boon 1977:28, van der Kraan 1983,
Wiener 1995:27

88. Vickers 1996:61. I need only re-
mark that the anthropological literature
on Bali, most notably Clifford Geertz's
famous essay on the Balinese cockfight as
"deep play" (1973), a space where Balinese
people can express their inner demons
and tell stories about themselves, or his
conception of pre-colonial governments as
"theater states" (1980) whose politics cen-
tered around gathering the resources to
create magnificent rituals, might well be
rethought in the light of all of this. There
is a peculiar blindness in this literature.
Even Boon, after the above quote about
men hiding their daughters, proceeds on
the very next page (1977:75) to refer to
that government's "subjects" as really
just a "slightly taxed audience for its ritu-
als," as if the likely prospect of the rape,
murder and enslavement of one's children
didn't really matter, or, anyway, was not
of explicitly political import.

89. All this is meant in part as a cri-
tique of Louis Dumont's arguments (1992)
that the only truly egalitarian societies are
modern ones, and even those only by de-
fault: since their ultimate value is individ-
ualism, and since each individual is valu-
able above all for the degree to which he
or she is unique, there can be no basis for
saying that anyone is intrinsically superior
to anybody else. One can have the same

effect without any doctrine of "Western
individualism" at all. The entire concept
of "individualism" needs to be seriously
rethought.

90. Beattie i960: 61.

91. True, in many traditional societies,
penalties are given to men who beat their
wives excessively. But again, the assump-
tion is that some such behavior is at least
par for the course.

92. On charivari, see for instance Da-
vis 1975, Darnton 1984. Keith Thomas
(1972:630), who cites this very Nyoro
story in an account of English villages of
that time, recounts a whole series of social
sanctions, such as dunking the "village
scold," that seem almost entirely aimed at
the violent control of women, but oddly,
he claims that charivari were directed at
men who beat their wives, despite the fact
that all other sources say the opposite.

93. Not quite all. Again, one might
cite Iroquois society of the same period
as an example: it was in many senses a
matriarchy, particularly on the everyday
household level, and women were not
exchanged.

94. Taken from Trawick 2000:185, fig"
ure 11.

95. The diagram is reproduced from
P. Bohannan 1957:87.

96. Akiga Sai 1939:161.

97. So too among the Lele, where
Mary Douglas (1963:131) remarks that it
was considered acceptable to whip a vil-
lage wife for refusing work or sex, but
this was no reflection on her status, since
the same was true of Lele wives married
to just one man, too.

Chapter Seven

1. http.sumerianorg/prot-sum.htm, from
a "Proto-Sumerian dictionary"

2. Florentius in Justinian's Institutes
(1.5.4. 1). ^ 's interesting to note that when
attempts are made to justify slavery, start-
ing with Aristotle, they generally focus

414

NOTES

not on the institution, which is not in it-
self justifiable, but on the inferior qualities
of some ethnic group being enslaved.

3. Elwahid 1931. Clarence-Smith
(2oo8:i7n56) notes that al-Wahid's book
itself emerged from within lively debates
in the Middle East about the role of slav-
ery in Islam that had been going on at
least since the mid-nineteenth century.

4. Elwahid 1931: 101-10, and passim.
An analogous list appears in Patterson
1982:105.

5. The sale of children was always
felt to be a sign of economic and moral
breakdown; even later Roman emperors
like Diocletian, notes al- Wahid, supported
charities aimed to provide relief for poor
families explicitly so they would not have
to resort to things like this (Elwahed 1931:
89-91).

6. Mitamura 1970.

7. Debt slavery, he notes, was practiced
in early Roman history, but this is because
according to the laws of the twelve tab-
lets, insolvent debtors could actually be
killed. In most places, where this was not
possible, debtors were not fully enslaved
by reduced to pawns or peons (see Testart
2000, 2002, for a full explanation of the
different possibilities).

8. Al-Wahid cites examples from Ath-
enaeus of Greek patients who offered
themselves as slaves to doctors who had
saved their lives (op cit:234)

9. Ulpian is precise: "In every branch of
the law, a person who fails to return from
enemy hands is regarded as having died at
the moment when he was captured." (Di-
gest 49.15.18) The Lex Cornelia of 84-81
bc specifies the need for remarriage.

10. Meillassoux 1996:106

11. Patterson 1982. "Slavery," as he de-
fines it, "is the permanent, violent domi-
nation of natally alienated and generally
dishonored persons." (1982:13)

12. He quotes Frederick Douglass here
to great effect: "A man without force is
without the essential dignity of human-
ity. Human nature is so constituted that it
cannot honor a helpless man, although it

can pity him; and even that it cannot do
long, if the signs of power do not arise."
(in Patterson 1982:13)

13. Presumably an honorable woman
as well, though in the case of women, as
we shall see, the question became inex-
tricably caught up in questions of fidelity
and chastity.

14. Paul Houlm (in Duffy, MacSham-
hrain and Moynes 2005:431.) True, the
balance of trade seems to have shifted
back and forth; at some periods Irish
ships were raiding English shores, and
after 800 ad the Vikings carried off thou-
sands, briefly making Dublin the largest
slave market in Europe. Still, by this time,
cumals do not appear to any longer have
been used as actual currency. There are
some parallels here with Africa, where in
certain times and places affected by the
trade, debts were tallied up in slaves as
well (Einzig 1949:153).

15. St. Patrick, one of the founders of
the Irish church, was one of the few of the
early Church Fathers who was overtly and
unconditionally opposed to slavery.

16. Doherty 1980:78-83.

17. Gerriets 1978:128, 1981:171-72,
1985:338. This was in dramatic contrast,
incidentally, to Welsh laws from only two
or three centuries later, where the prices
of all such objects are fastidiously speci-
fied (Ellis 1926:379-81). The list of items
incidentally is a random selection from the
Welsh codes.

18. Doherty 1980:73-74

19. This was true in Irish and in Welsh,
and apparently, other Celtic languages as
well. Charles-Edwards (1978:130, 1993:555)
actually translates "honor price" as "face
value."

20. The one exception being an early
ecclesiastical text: Einzig 1949:247-48,
Gerriets 1978:71.

21. The main source on the monetary
system is Gerriets (1978), a dissertation
that unfortunately was never published as
a book. A table of standard rates of ex-
change between cumal, cows, silver, etc,

NOTES

415

are also to be found in Charles-Edwards
i993:478-85-

22. Gerriets 1978:53.

23. If you had lent a man your horse or
sword and he didn't return it in time for
a battle, causing loss of face, or even if a
monk lent his cowl to another monk who
didn't return it in time, causing him not to
have proper attire for an important synod,
he could demand his honor price (Fergus
1988:118).

24. The honor price of Welsh kings
was far higher (Ellis 1926:144).

25. Provincial kings, who ranked
higher, had an honor price of 14 cumals,
and in theory there was a high king at
Tara who ruled all Ireland, but the posi-
tion was often vacant or contested (Byrne
1973)-

26. All of this is a simplification of
what's in fact an endlessly complicated
system, and some points, especially con-
cerning marriage, of which there are sev-
eral varieties, with different integrations
of brideprice and dowry, remain obscure.
In the case of clients, for example, there
were two initial payments by the lord, the
honor price being one of them; with "free
clients," however, the honor price was not
paid and the client was not reduced to
servile status, (See Kelly 1988 for the best
general summary.)

27. Dimetian Code II. 24.12 (Howel
2006:559). A similar penalty is specified
for the killing of public officials from cer-
tain districts (Ellis 1926:362).

28. "There is no evidence that goods
themselves could be assigned prices. That
is, while Irish moneys could quantify the
status of an individual, they were not used
to quantify the value of goods." (Gerriets
1985:338).

29. Sutton 2004:374.

30. Gallant 2000. One might also con-
sider here the phrase "affair of honor," or
for that matter, "honor killing" — which
also make clear that such sentiments are
hardly confined to rural Greece.

31. In fact, one could just as easily turn
the question around, and ask: Why is it so

insulting to suggest that a man's sister is
trading sex for money in the first place?
This one reason I say that concepts of
honor still shape our perceptions in ways
we're not aware of — there are plenty of
places in the world where the suggestion
that a man's wife is trading sex for profit,
or that his sister is engaged with multiple
partners, is more likely to be greeted with
bemused good humor than with murder-
ous rage. We've already seen examples in
the Gunwinggu and the Lele.

32. Obviously I am distinguishing the
term here from the broader sense of pa-
triarchy used in much feminist literature,
of any social system based on male subor-
dination of women. Clearly the origins of
patriarchy in this broader sense must be
sought in a much earlier period of history
in both the Mediterranean and Near East.

33. The "Semitic infiltration" model is
already to be found in such classic sources
as Saggs (1962). Generally speaking, the
pattern seems to be one of periodic urban
crisis, the near-breakdown of riverine so-
ciety being followed by revival, apparently
after the advent of a new wave of Semitic
pastoralists (Adams et al. 1974).

34. Rohrlich 1980 is a compelling
example.

35. This is of course a vast simplifica-
tion of a thesis mainly identified with the
anthropologist Jack Goody (1976, 1983,
1990). The basic principle is that dowry
is not so much a payment by the bride's
father (it might come equally from both
sides) but a kind of premature inheritance.
Goody has had very little to say about
Mesopotamia, though, and that little
(1990:315-17) focuses almost exclusively
on upper-class practice.

36. Wilcke 1985, Westbrook 1988,
Greengus 1990, Stol 1995:125-27. For
Mari: Lafont 1987; for Old Babylonian
practice: Greengus 1966, 1969; for Nuzi,
Grosz 1983, 1989.

37. Our best sources are from the city
of Nuzi C1500 bc, though Nuzi was atypi-
cal in certain ways, mainly due to Hur-
rian influence. There, marriage payments

416

NOTES

appear to have been made in stages, for
instance, at the birth of a first child (Grosz
1981:176) — a pattern familiar to anthro-
pologists from Melanesia, Africa, and nu-
merous other parts of the world.

38. Finkelstein 1966, VerSteeg 2000:121,
I53n9I- A father could claim monetary
damages against someone who falsely
claimed that his daughter was not a vir-
gin, presumably because it would lower
the bride-price (Cooper 2002:101).

39. Bottero 1992:113.

40. Stol 1995:126.

41. Cardascia 1959 on "matrimonial
adoption" (also Mendelsohn 1949:8-12,
Greengus 1975). During times of famine,
sometimes even the brideprice was dis-
pensed with, and a starving family might
turn over their daughter to a rich house-
hold in exchange for a promise to keep
her alive.

42. Evans-Prichard 1931, Raglan 1931.
It's a little ironic that the debate was oc-
curring in England, since this was one
of the few places where it was, techni-
cally, legal to sell or even auction off
one's wife (Menefee 1981; Stone 1990:143-
48; see Pateman 1988). Stone notes that
while public "wife-sales" in English vil-
lages were apparently really prearranged
divorces, "the details of the ritual were
designed to emphasize the final nature of
the transfer of property, by imitating as
closely as possible the sale of a cow or
a sheep. A halter was used to lead the
wife from her home to the market, and
from the market to the house of her pur-
chaser." (1990:145) The practice, confined
to the popular classes, caused a scandal
when documented in Hardy's Mayor of
Casterbridge, but it was only completely
abandoned in 1919.

43. Finley 1981:153-55; Stienkeller 2003;
Mieroop 2005:27-28. Mieroop notes that
the earliest such contract is documented
from twenty-first-century Babylonia. This
is an interesting example for the early his-
tory of wage labor. As I've written else-
where (Graeber 2006:66-69; 2007:91-94),
wage-labor contracts in the ancient world

were primarily a matter of the rental of
slaves — a practice that in Mesopotamia is
first documented only in neo-Babylonian
times (Oppenheim 1964:78, VerSteeg
2000:70-71; for an Egyptian parallel Ver-
Steeg 2002:197).

44. The entire issue has been compli-
cated by Herodotus' claim (1.199) that all
Babylonian women other than daughters
of the elite were expected to prostitute
themselves at temples, once, to earn the
money for their dowries. This was cer-
tainly false, but it has caused the terms of
debate to become rather confused between
people insisting on the importance of "hi-
erodules" or even claiming that all prosti-
tution was effectively sacred (e.g., Kramer
1969, Lambert 1992) and those rejecting
the entire notion as Orientalist fantasy
(Arnaud 1973, Westenholz 1989, Beard &
Henderson 1997, Assante 2003). However,
recently published texts from Kish and
Sippar make clear that sexual rituals in-
volving temple women, at least some of
whom were paid for their services, defi-
nitely did take place (Gallery 1980; Yoffee
1998; Stol 1995:138-39) The devadasi anal-
ogy incidentally was first to my knowl-
edge proposed in Yoffee 1998:336. On
devadasis in general: Orr 2000, Jordan
2003, Vijaisri 2004.

45. Kramer 1963:116, Bahrani 2001:
59-60.

46. A similar reading can be found in
Bottero 1992:96, but without the ambiva-
lence, which Lerner (1980:247) emphasizes.

47. See Lerner 1980, Van Der Toorn
1989, Lambert 1992.

48. Also, in many places, small-scale
female traders are likened to or confused
with prostitutes, simply because they have
multiple ongoing relationships with unre-
lated men (for a contemporary Kazakh ex-
ample: Nazpary 2001) — and the roles can
sometimes overlap.

49. Diakonoff (1982). Loose bands of
pastoral nomads or refugees, who also
sometimes doubled as soldiers, were of-
ten referred to generically as hapiru or
habiru, both in Mesopotamia and to the

NOTES

417

West. This might be the origin of the term
"Hebrew," another group that according
to their own histories had fled from bond-
age, wandered with their flocks in the des-
ert, and eventually descended as conquer-
ors on urban society.

50. Herodotus 1.199, also Strabo
16.1.20.

51. Revelations 17.4-5. Revelations
seems to follow the perspective of the fol-
lowers of Peter more than those of Paul.
I observe in passing that Rastafarian-
ism, the main prophetic voice today that
makes use of the image of Babylon as cor-
ruption and oppression — though it does
tend to play down the imagery of sexual
corruption — has in practice been very
much about the reassertion of patriarchal
authority among the poor.

52. 1980:249-54; 1989:123-40. The
main textual source is Driver & Miles
1935; also Cardascia 1969.

53. In Sumerian weddings, a bride's
father would cover her with a veil, and
the groom would remove it — it was by
this act that he made her his wife (Stol
1995:128). Not only does this demonstrate
the degree to which the veil was a sym-
bol of encompassment in some man's do-
mestic authority; it might also have been
the source from which the later Assyrian
practice was eventually adopted.

54. My take on Confucianism follows
Deng's (1999) somewhat unconventional
approach. See Watson 1980 on the com-
moditization of women; Gates 1989 on
its relation to general decline of women's
freedoms during the Song; there seems to
have been another major setback during
the Ming dynasty — for a recent overview,
Ko, Haboush, and Piggott (2003). Testart
(2000, 2001:148-49, 190) emphasizes that
the case of China confirms his "general
sociological law," that societies that prac-
tice brideprice will also allow debt slavery
(Testart, Lecrivain, Karadimas & Govo-
roff 2001), since this was a place where
the government vainly tried to stop both.
Another aspect of Confucianism was that
male slavery was seen as much more

dubious than female slavery; though it
never went as far as in Korea, where af-
ter the invasion of Hideyoshi, a law was
passed decreeing that only women could
be enslaved.

55. Tambiah (1973, 1989) was the first
to make what is now the standard critique
of Goody's argument. Goody prefers to
see these as indirect dowry payments since
they were normally passed to the family
(1990:178-97).

56. On Homeric honor: Finley
1954:118-19, Adkins 1972:14-16 Seaford
1994:6-7. Cattle are again the main unit
of account, and silver. Is also apparently
used As Classicists have noted, the only
actual acts of buying and selling in the
Homeric epics are with foreigners (Von
Reden 1995:58-76, Seaford 2004:26-30,
Finley 1954:67-70). Needless to say, Ho-
meric society lacked the legalistic preci-
sion of the Irish notion of "honor price"
but the principles were broadly the same,
since time could mean not only "honor"
but "penalty" and "compensation."

57. Time is not used for the "price"
of commodities in the Iliad or the Odys-
sey, but then prices of commodities are
barely mentioned. It is, however, used for
"compensation," in the sense of wergeld
or honor-price (Seaford 2oo4:i98n46). The
first attested use of time as purchase price
is in the slightly later Homeric Hymn to
Demeter (132) where, as Seaford notes, it
seems significant that in fact it refers to a
slave.

58. Aristotle, Constitution of the Athe-
nians 2.2. He is referring to the great cri-
sis leading to Solon's reforms, the famous
"shaking off of burdens" of c. 594 BC.

59. Greek chattel slavery was in fact
much more extreme than anything that
appears to have existed in the ancient
Near East at the time (see e.g., Wester-
mann 1955; Finley 1974, 1981; Wiede-
mann 1981; Dandamaev 1984; Westbrook
1995), not only because most Near East-
ern "slaves" were not technically slaves
at all but redeemable debt pawns, who
therefore at least in theory could not be

418

NOTES

arbitrarily abused, but because even those
who were absolute private property had
greater rights.

60. "Self-sufficiency is an end and what
is best" (Aristotle Politics 1256-58; see Fin-
ley 1974:109-11, Veyne 1979, for classic dis-
cussions of what this meant in practice.)

61. The argument here follows Kurke
2002. On the public brothels, see Hal-
perin 1990, Kurke 1996. There actually
were Temple prostitutes in Greece too,
mostly famously in Corinth, where Strabo
(8.6.20) claimed that the Temple of Aph-
rodite owned a thousand of them, appar-
ently, slaves who had been dedicated to
the temple by pious worshippers.

62. As noted in the quote from David
Sutton (2004) above. For a sampling of
the anthropological literature on honor in
contemporary Greek society, see: Camp-
bell 1964, Peristiany 1965, Schneider 1971,
Herzfeld 1980, 1985, Just 2001.

63. On the impropriety of women's
work outside the household, see Brock
1994. On segregation of women in general:
Keuls 1985, Cohen 1987, Just 1989, Loraux
1993-

64. The evidence is overwhelming, but
until recently has been largely ignored.
Llewellyn- Jones (2003) notes that the
practice began as an aristocratic affecta-
tion, but that by the fifth century, all re-
spectable women "were veiled daily and
routinely, at least in public or in front of
non-related men" (ibid:i4).

65. van Reden 1997:174, referencing
Herodotus 7.233, Plutarch's Pericles, 26.4.

66. A woman who one of them, Achil-
les, had personally reduced to slavery. Bri-
seis was from the Trojan town of Lyrnes-
sus, and after Achilles killed her husband
and three brothers in the Greek attack on
the town, she was awarded to him as a
prize. (On learning of this, her father later
hanged himself.) In the Iliad, Achilles in-
sists he loves her. Briseis' opinions were
not considered worth recording, though
later poets, uncomfortable with the idea
that the greatest epic of antiquity was a
celebration of simple rape, concocted a

story whereby Briseis had actually long
been in love with Achilles from afar,
and somehow manipulated the course of
events so as to cause the battle to begin
with.

67. Homeric warriors weren't really
aristocrats at all, or if they were, as Cal-
houn puts it (1934:308) they were aris-
tocrats "only in the loosest sense of the
word." Mostly they were just a collection
of local chieftains and ambitious warriors.

68. See Kurke 1997:112-13, 1999:197-98
for Greek elaborations on the theme. So
too Seaford: "Whereas the Homeric gift
is invested with the personality of its he-
roic donor, the only kind of person that
money resembles is the prostitute. For
Shakespeare it is 'the common whore of
all mankind'" (2002:156, emphasis in the
original. For what it's worth, Seaford is
slightly off here: Shakespeare described the
earth as the "common whore of all man-
kind," whose womb produces gold, which
is money [Timon of Athens 4.3.42-45].)

69. Seaford 2002 in his review of Kurke
notes that Greek sources regularly go back
and forth on this.

70. In the Odyssey (11.488-91), fa-
mously, Achilles, when trying to invoke
the lowest and most miserable person he
can possibly imagine, invokes not a slave
but a thete, a mere laborer unattached to
any household.

71. Free pome were always the daugh-
ters of foreigners or resident aliens.
So, incidentally, were the aristocrats'
courtesans.

72. The reader will observe that even
in the anecdotes that follow, women sim-
ply don't appear. We have no idea who
Polemarchus' wife was.

73. Recall here that pederasty was
technically against the law. Or, to be
more exact, for a man to submit to the
passive role in sodomy was illegal; one
could be stripped of one's citizenship for
having done so. While most adult men
were involved in love affairs with boys,
and most boys with men, all did so un-
der the pretense that no intercourse was

NOTES

419

actually taking place; as a result, almost
anyone could be accused of former im-
propriety. The most famous case here is
Aeschines' Against Timarchus (see van
Reden 2003:120-23, also Dillon 2003:117-
28.) Exactly the same dilemmas resurface
in Rome, where Cicero, for instance, ac-
cused his rival Marc Antony of having
once made his living as a male prostitute
(Philippics 2.44-45), and Octavian, the
later Augustus, was widely reputed to
have "prostituted" himself, as a youth, to
Julius Caesar, among other powerful pa-
trons (Suetonius Augustus 68).

74. The most famous cases were Ath-
ens, Corinth, and Megara (Asheri 1969;
St. Croix 1981; Finley 1981:156-57.)

75. The law was called the palinto-
kia and is known mainly from Plutarch
{Moralia 295D, apparently drawing on
a lost Aristotelian Constitution of the
Megarians.) Almost everything about it
is at issue in current scholarship (Asheri
1969:14-16; Figueria 1985:149-56, Mil-
lettt 1989: 21-22; Hudson 1992:31; Bryant
1994:100-044). Hudson for instance ar-
gues that since the event is said to have
happened around 540 bc, at a time when
interest-bearing loans might not even have
existed, the whole story is likely to be
later propaganda. Others suggest that it
really happened much later. It's interest-
ing that all Greek sources treat this as
a most radical and outrageous populist
measure — despite the fact that similar
measures became standard Catholic pol-
icy during most of the European Middle
Ages.

76. It is entirely unclear whether loans
at interest even existed in this early pe-
riod, since the first apparent reference to
interest is from roughly 475 bc, and the
first utterly clear ones from the later part
of that same century (Bogaert 1966, 1968;
Finley 1981; Millett 1991a: 44-45; Hudson
1992).

77. Compare for example Leviticus
25:35-37, which stipulates that it is per-
missible to make an impoverished "fellow

countryman" a client or tenant, but not to
give him an interest-bearing loan.

78. As Hesiod emphasizes in Works and
Days (II 344-63); he's our main source on
such matters. Paul Millett (19913:30-35)
provides a close reading of this passage,
to illustrate the ambiguities between gifts
and loans. Millett's book Lending and
Borrowing in Ancient Athens (op cit) is
the basic work on that topic. Scholarship
on the Greek economy has long been pre-
occupied by what's still (rather anachro-
nistically) called the Primitivist-Modernist
debate; Millett takes a strong Primitivist
position and has taken predictable heat
from the other side (e.g., Cohen 1995,
Shipley 1997, 2001). Most of the debate,
though, turns on the prevalence of com-
mercial lending, which is tangential to my
present concerns.

79. The story is so striking because
Nasruddin almost never elsewhere be-
haves in a way that a contemporary au-
dience would consider unfair or exploit-
ative. Those stories that do always focus
on his relations with his neighbor the
miser — the listener is presumed to know
that being a miser, he must, necessarily,
be up to no good.

80. "Against Nicostratus" (Demos-
thenes 53). My version largely follows
Millet (19913:53-59) but also draws on
Trevett 1992, Dillon 2002:94-100, Har-
ris 2006:261-63). The interpretation of
Nicostratus' motives is my own; Dil-
lon, for example, suspects that the en-
tire story of his kidnapping and ransom
at Aegina was made up — though if that
were the case, one would imagine Apol-
lodorus would have eventually found
out and told the jurors. The text doesn't
explicitly say that Nicostratus was an
aristocrat, but this seems the most plau-
sible explanation of why someone might
have a comfortable country estate but no
money. Apollodorus, though, was known,
from other contexts, to have feared that
his fellow citizens would have contempt
for his lowly background, and tried to
compensate by lavish — and some felt,

420

NOTES

over-lavish — generosity (see Ballin 1978;
Trevett 1992).

81. Athenians when trying to be high-
minded at least spoke as if fellow citizens
should behave this way to one another;
to loan money at interest to a citizen in
dire need was treated as obviously rep-
rehensible behavior (Millett 19913:26). All
philosophers who touched on the subject,
starting with Plato {Laws 742c, 921c) and
Aristotle (Politics 1258c) denounced inter-
est as immoral. Obviously not everyone
felt that way. Here as in the Middle East,
from whence the custom had spread (Hud-
son 1992), the dilemma was that charging
interest made obvious sense in the case of
commercial loans, but easily became abu-
sive in the case of consumer loans.

82. It's not clear whether debt slavery,
or at least debt peonage, was anywhere
entirely eliminated, and debt crises contin-
ued to occur at regular intervals in cities
other than Athens (Asheri 1969; St. Croix
1981). Some (Rhodes 1981:118-27; Cairns
1991; Harris 2006:249-80) believe that
debt bondage was not even entirely elimi-
nated in Athens. Millett (19913:76) is prob-
ably right to say that imperial capitals like
Athens, 3nd later Rome, fended off the
dangers of debt crises and resulting un-
rest less by forbidding the practice than by
funneling tribute money into social pro-
grams that provided a constant source of
funds for the poor, making usury largely
unnecessary.

83. Millett 1991^189-92. The same
was true in Roman Galilee (Goodman
1983:55), and presumably in Rome as well
(Howgego 1992:13).

84. the Furies, who pursue Orestes to
avenge his killing of his mother, insist that
they are collecting a debt due in blood
(Aeschylus, Eumenides 260, 319.) Millett
(19918:6-7) compiles a number of exam-
ples. Korver (1934, cf. Millet 1991:29-32)
demonstrates that there was never any
formal distinction between "gift" and
"loan"; the two continually shaded into
each other.

85. The two were seen to be connect-
ed: Herodotus, famously, argued that for
the Persians, the greatest crime was to lie,
and that they therefore forbade the loan-
ing of money at interest since it would
necessarily give rise to untruthful behavior
(1.138).

86. Plato Republic 331c.

87. Plato Republic 345d. My reading is
strongly influenced here by that of Marc
Shell (1978). Shell's essay is important, but
sadly neglected, as Classicists only seem to
cite each other (at least, on the subject of
the Classics).

88. What Polemarchus is invoking of
course is the logic of the heroic gift, and
of the feud. If someone helps or harms
you, you pay them back the same or bet-
ter. Polemarchus actually says that there
are two circumstances when it's easiest to
do this: in war, and in banking.

89. The Republic was written in 380
BC, and these events took place in 388/7.
See Thesleff 1989:5, DuBois 2003:153-54,
for the dates and references to ancient
and contemporary scholarship on the is-
sue, which concur that these events did
take place. It's not entirely clear if Plato
was taken in an act of piracy, sold on the
orders of an angry ex-patron, or seized as
a prisoner of war (Aegina — Plato's birth-
place, incidentally — was then at war with
Athens.) But the lines blurred. Curiously,
Diogenes the Cynic, a younger contempo-
rary of Plato, was also captured by pirates
on a trip to Aegina around the same time.
In his case no one came to his aid (un-
surprising considering that he rejected all
worldly attachments and tended to insult
everyone he met). He ended up spending
the rest of his life as a slave in Corinth
(Diogenes Laertius, 4.9). Plato, Aristotle,
and Diogenes were the three most famous
philosophers of the fourth century; the
fact that two of the three had the expe-
rience of standing on an auction block
demonstrates that such things really could
happen to anyone.

NOTES

421

90. Plato recounts the events in his
Seventh Letter to Dion, but Annikeris
only appears in Diogenes Laertius 3.19-20.

91. Ihering 1877.

92. Rights "in rem," or "in the thing,"
are considered to be held "against all the
world," since "a duty is incumbent on all
persons whatsoever to abstain from acts
injurious to the right" — this is opposed
to rights "in personem," which are held
against a specific individual or group of
individuals (Digby & Harrison 1897:301).
Garnsey (2007:177-178) notes that Proud-
hon (1840) was correct in insisting that
the "absolute" nature of property rights in
the French Civil Code and other paradig-
matic modern legal documents goes back
directly to Roman law, both to the notion
of absolute private property, and to that
of the emperor's absolute sovereignty.

93. The idea that Roman property was
not a right goes back to Villey (1946), and
became mainstream in English scholarship
with Tuck (1979:7-13) and Tierney (1997),
though Garnsey (2007:177-95) has recently
made a convincing case that Roman ju-
rists did see property as a right (ius) in the
sense that one had a right of alienation,
and to defend one's claims in court. It's
an interesting debate, largely turning on
one's definition of "right," but somewhat
tangential to my own argument.

94. "The paradigmatic relation be-
tween a person and a thing is that of own-
ership, yet the omans themselves seemed
never to have defined it. To them, it was
a power relation — a form of potestas —
directly exercised over the physical thing
itself" (Samuel 2003:302).

95. In earliest Roman law (the Twelve
Tablets of C450 bc) slaves were still peo-
ple, but of diminished worth, since inju-
ries against them counted as 50 percent
those of a free person (Twelve Tablets
VIII.10). By the late Republic, around the
time of the emergence of the concept of
dominium, slaves had been redefined as
res, things, and injuries to them had the
same legal status as injuries to farm ani-
mals (Watson 1987:46)

96. Patterson: "it is difficult to under-
stand why the Romans would want to in-
vent the idea of a relation between a per-
son and a thing (an almost metaphysical
notion, quite at variance with the Roman
way of thinking in other areas) . . . unless
we understand that, for most purposes,
the 'thing' on their minds was a slave"
(1982:31).

97. It does not appear in the Twelve
Tablets or early legal documents.

98. Dominus first appears in 111 bc,
dominium, sometime later (Birks 1985:26).
Keith Hopkins (1978) estimates that by
the end of the Republic, slaves made up
between 30 and 40 percent of the Italian
population, perhaps the highest propor-
tion of any known society.

99. Digest 9.2.11 pr., Ulpian in the i8'h
book on the Edict.

100. The examples are from Digest
47.2.36 pr., Ulpian in the 41" book on Sa-
binus, and Digest 9.2.33 pr, Paulus' sec-
ond book to Plautius, respectively.

101. See Sailer (1984) on domus ver-
sus familia. The word familia, and its
various later European cognates, famille
in French, family in English, and so on,
continued to refer primarily to a unit of
authority and not necessarily of kinship
until at least the 18th century (Stone 1968,
Flandrin 1979, Duby 1982:220-23, Ozment
1983; Herlihy 1985)

102. Westbrook 1999:207 goes through
the three known cases of this really hap-
pening. It would seem that the father's
authority here was considered identical to
that of the state. If a father was found to
have executed his child illegitimately, he
could be punished.

103. Or to enslave them. In fact the
Law of the Twelve Tablets (III.i) itself
seems to be an attempt to reform or mod-
erate even harsher practices, as al-Wahid
(Elwahed 1931:81-82) was perhaps the first
to point out.

104. Finley notes that the sexual avail-
ability of slaves "is treated as a common-
place in the Graeco-Roman literature"

422

NOTES

(1980:143; see Sailer 1987:98-99, Glancey
1006:50-57).

105. There is a lively debate about
whether breeding slaves was ever exten-
sively practiced in Rome: one common
theory of slavery (e.g., Meillassoux 1996,
Anderson 1974) arguing that it is never
profitable to do so, and when a supply of
new slaves is cut off, slaves will ordinarily
be converted into serfs. There seems no
reason to weigh in on this here, but for a
summary, see Bradley 1987.

106. True, Roman citizens could not
legally enslave one another; but they could
be enslaved by foreigners, and pirates and
kidnappers rarely put too fine a point on
such things.

107. The Chinese emperor Wang Mang
was so fastidious on this point, for in-
stance, that he once ordered one of his
own sons put to death for the arbitrary
murder of a slave (Testart 1998:23.)

108. The lex Petronia. Technically
it bans owners from ordering slaves to
"fight the wild beasts," a popular public
entertainment: "fight," though, is usually
a euphemism, since those fighting hungry
lions were not provided with weapons, or
obviously inadequate ones. It was only a
century later, under Hadrian (117-138 ad),
that owners were forbidden to kill their
slaves, maintain private dungeons for
them or practice other cruel and excessive
punishments. Interestingly, the gradual
limitation of the power of slave-owners
was accompanied by increasing state pow-
er, expansion of citizenship, but also the
return of various forms of debt-bondage
and the creation of dependent peasantry
(Finley 1972:92-93; 1981:164-65).

109. Thus Livy (41.9.11) notes in 177 bc
the senate actually passed a law to pre-
vent Italians who were not Roman citizens
from selling relatives into slavery in this
way in order to become citizens.

no. The phrase is preserved in the
work of the elder Seneca (Controversias
4.7) and noted by Finley (1980:96), among
others. There is a detailed discussion in
Butrica 2006:210-23.

in. Wirszubski 1950. On the etymol-
ogy, see Benveniste 1963:262-72. Similar-
ly Kopytoff and Miers (1977) emphasize
that in Africa, "freedom" always meant
incorporation into some kin group — only
slaves were "free" (in our sense) of all so-
cial relations.

112. Florentius in Justinian's Institutes
(1.5.4.1). Some suggest that the word
"natural" in the first sentence was only
inserted in later editions, perhaps in the
fourth century. The position that slavery
is a product of force enshrined in law,
contrary to nature, however, goes back at
least to the fourth century BC, when Aris-
totle (Politics 1253020-23) explicitly takes
issue with it (see Cambiano 1987).

113. Already in the that century, law-
yers like Azo and Bracton began asking: If
this is true, wouldn't that mean a serf is
a free man too? (Harding 1980:424 note 6;
see also Buckland 1908:1, Watson 1987).

114. Ulpian wrote that "everyone was
born free under the law of nature" and
that slavery was a result of the ins gen-
tium ("law of nations"), the common le-
gal usages of mankind. Some later jurists
added that property was originally com-
mon and the ius gentium was responsible
for kingdoms, property, and so on (Digest
1. 1. 5). As Tuck notes (1979:19), these were
really scattered ideas, only systematized
by Church thinkers like Gratian much
later, during the twelfth-century revival of
Roman law.

115. Princeps legibus solutus est ("the
sovereign is not bound by the laws"), a
phrase initially coined by Ulpian and re-
peated by Justinian (1.3 pr.) This was a
very new notion in the ancient world; the
Greeks, for instance, had insisted that
while men could do as they liked with
their women, children, and slaves, any
ruler who exploited their own subjects in
the same way was the definition of a ty-
rant. Even the basic principle of modern
sovereignty, that rulers hold the ultimate
power of life and death over their subjects
(which modern heads of state still hold in
their power to grant pardons), was looked

NOTES

423

on with suspicion. Similarly, under the
Republic, Cicero argued that rulers who
insisted on holding the power of life and
death were by definition tyrants, "even if
they prefer to be called kings" {De Re Pu-
blica 3.23, Westbrook 1999:204.)

116. In the Chronicle of Walter of Guis-
borough (1957:216); see Clanchy 1993:2-5.

117. Aylmer 1980.

118. To be fair, a classical liberal
would insist that this is the logical conclu-
sion with starting out from the notion of
freedom as active instead of passive (or as
philosophers put it, that there are "sub-
jective rights") — that is, seeing freedom
not just as others' obligations to allow us
to do whatever the law or custom says
we can do, but to do anything that is not
specifically forbidden, and that this has
had tremendous liberating effects. There
is certainly truth in this. But historically,
it has been something of a side effect, and
there are many other ways to come to the
same conclusion that do not require us to
accept the underlying assumptions about
property.

119. Tuck 1979:49, cf. Tully 1993:252,
Blackburn 1997:63-64.

120. Note here that in this period,
the justification was not based on any
assumption of racial inferiority — racial
ideologies came later — but rather on the
assumption that African laws were legiti-
mate and should be considered binding, at
least on Africans.

121. I've made the argument that wage
labor is rooted in slavery extensively in
the past — see e.g., Graeber 2006.

122. This is the reason, as C.B.
MacPherson (1962) explained, that when
"human rights abuses" are evoked in
the newspapers, it is only when govern-
ments can be seen as trespassing on some
victim's person or possessions — say, by
raping, torturing, or killing them. The
Universal Declaration of Human Rights,
like just about all similar documents, also
speaks of universal rights to food and
shelter, but one never reads about govern-
ments committing "human rights abuses"

when they eliminate price supports on
basic foodstuffs, even if it leads to wide-
spread malnutrition, or for razing shan-
tytowns or kicking the homeless out of
shelters.

123. One can trace the notion back as
least as far back as Seneca, who in the
first century ad, argued that slaves could
be free in their minds, since force only ap-
plied to the "prison of the body" {De ben-
eficiis 3.20) — this appears to have been a
key point of transition between the notion
of freedom as the ability to form moral
relations with others, and freedom as an
internalization of the master's power.

124. See Roitman 2003:224 for one au-
thor who explicitly relates this to debt.
For objects as unique points in a human
history, there is a vast literature, but see
Hoskins 1999, Graeber 2001.

125. One can tell how unusual slav-
ery was by informants' assumptions that
slaves would have no idea that this was to
be their fate.

126. Significantly, at the very moment
when his social existence was the only ex-
istence he had left. The mass killing of
slaves at the funerals of kings, or gran-
dees, has been documented from ancient
Gaul, to Sumer, China, and the Americas.

127. Iliad 9:342-44.

128. Evans-Pritchard 1948:36; cf., Sah-
lins 1981. For a good example of identifi-
cation of kings and slaves, Feeley-Harnik
1982. Obviously, everyone is well aware
that kings do have families, friends, lov-
ers, etc — the point is that this is always
seen as something of a problem, since he
should be king to all his subjects equally.

129. Regarding the influence of Roman
law on the liberal tradition, it is fascinat-
ing to note that the very earliest author
we have on record who laid out some-
thing like Smith's model, where money,
and ultimately coinage, is invented as an
aid to commerce, was another Roman ju-
rist, Paulus: Digest 18.1.1.

130. But it has by no means been elimi-
nated. (If anyone is inclined to doubt this,
I recommend they take a stroll through

424

NOTES

their neighborhood ignoring all property
rights, and see just how long it takes for
the weapons to come out.)

Chapter Eight

1. "Debt, n. An ingenious substitute for
the chain and whip of the slavedriver,"
wrote the notorious cynic Ambrose Bierce
(The Devil's Dictionary, 1911:49). Certain-
ly for those Thai women who appeared at
Neil Bush's door, the difference between
having been sold by one's parents, and
working off one's parents' debt contract,
was as much a technicality as it would
have been two thousand years ago.

2. One of the few authors I know
who's confronted the question head-on is
Pierre Dockes (1979), who makes a con-
vincing statement that it has to do with
the power of the state: at least, slavery
as an institution was briefly revived under
the Carolingian empire and then vanished
again afterward. It is certainly interesting
that since the nineteenth century at least,
the "transition from feudalism to capital-
ism" has become our historical paradigm
for epochal social change, and no one much
addresses the transition from ancient slavery
to feudalism, even though there is reason to
believe that whatever is happening now may
much more closely resemble it.

3. Robin Blackburn makes this argu-
ment quite convincingly in The Making
of New World Slavery (1997). There were
some exceptions, notably the Italian city-
states. The story is of course more compli-
cated than I'm representing it: one reason
for the hostility was that during much of
the Middle Ages, Europeans were largely
victims of slave-raiders rather than their
beneficiaries, with many captives market-
ed in North Africa and the Middle East.

4. The Aegean coins were stamped;
the Indian, punched; and the Chinese,
cast. This suggests that we are not talking
about diffusion here. Speaking of Indian
coins, for instance, one historian remarks:
"If there is one thing that seems clear from

a punch-marked coin, it is that the person
who thought it up had never seen a Greek
coin — or if he had seen one, it had not
impressed him. The punch-marked coin is
made by an entirely different metallurgical
process" (Schaps 2006:9).

5. Pruessner (1928) was perhaps the
first to point this out.

6. They appear to have been widely
used by Old Assyrian merchants operating
in Anatolia (Veenhof 1997).

7. Powell (1978, 1979, 1999:14-18) pro-
vides an excellent assessment of the evi-
dence, emphasizing that Babylonians did
not produce scales accurate enough to
measure the tiny amounts of silver they
would have had to use to make ordinary
household purchases like fried fish or
cords of firewood in cash. He concludes
that silver was largely used in transactions
between merchants. Market vendors there-
fore presumably acted as they do in small-
scale markets in Africa and Central Asia,
today, building up lists of trustworthy cli-
ents to whom they could extend credit over
time (e.g., Hart 1999:201, Nazpary 2001).

8. Hudson 2002:21-23, who hypoth-
esizes that the time element was important
as merchants would presumably otherwise
delay to employ the funds as long as pos-
sible. See Renger 1984, 1994; Meiroop 2005.

9. I'm referring here to Qirad and
Mudaraba arrangements, similar to the
ancient and Medieval Mediterranean
Commenda (Udovitch 1970, Ray 1997).

10. Herodotus 1.138.

11. Herodotus 3.102-5.

12. Mieroop 2002:63, 2005:29. He
notes that Enmetena's total grain income
in any one year was roughly 37 million li-
ters, making the sum he claims to be owed
more than one thousand times his own
palace's annual revenue.

13. Lambert 1971; Lemche 1979:16.

14. Hudson 1993 provides the most de-
tailed overview of this literature.

15. Hudson 1993:20.

16. Grierson 1977:17, citing Cerny

i954:9°7-

17. Bleiberg 2002

NOTES

425

18. One authority states categorically:
"I do not know of debt-annulment decrees
issued by any Pharaoh" (Jasnow 2001:42),
and adds that there is no evidence for
debt-bondage until the very late Demot-
ic period. This is the same period when
Greek sources begin to speak of both.

19. VerSteeg 2002:199; see Lorton

i977:4i-44-

20. This in certain ways resembles the
legal loopholes created in both the Medi-
eval Christian and Islamic worlds, where
interest was formally banned: see chapter
10 below.

21. Diodorus Siculus 1.79. See Wes-
termann 1955:50-51 for a comparison
of Greek and Egyptian sources on the
subject.

22. The history of the dissemination of
interest-bearing debt is only beginning to
be reconstructed. It does not yet appear
in Ebla (c. 2500 bc), in Old or Middle
Kingdom Egypt, or in Mycenaean Greece,
but it eventually becomes common in the
Levant in the late Bronze Age, and also
in Hittite Anatolia. As we'll see, it came
quite late to Classical Greece, and even
later to places like Germany.

23. In Chinese historiography, in fact,
this whole epoch is known as "the feudal
period.")

24. The Guanzi, cited in Schaps
2006:20.

25. Yung-Ti (2006) has recently argued
that they weren't, though we wouldn't
really know. Thierry (1992:39-41) simply
assumes they were, providing much evi-
dence of their use both as units of account
and means of payment, but none of their
use for buying and selling.

26. At any rate, cowries were definitely
being used as the equivalent of coins in
later periods, and the government periodi-
cally either suppressed their use or reintro-
duced them (Quiggin 1949, Swann 1950,
Thierry 1992:39-41, Peng 1994.) Cowrie
money survived, alongside tally sticks, as
a common form of currency in Yunnan
province in the far south until relatively
recent times (B. Yang 2002), and detailed

studies exist, but — as far as I can tell —
only in Chinese.

27. Scheidel 2004:5.

28. Kan 1978:92, Martzloff 2002:178. I
note in passing that a study of the Inca
khipu system itself would itself be quite
fascinating in this regard; the strings were
used to record both obligations we would
consider financial, and others we would
consider ritual, since as in so many Eur-
asian languages, the words "debt" and
"sin" were the same in Quechua as well
(Quitter &C Urton 2002:270).

29. L. Yang (1971:5) finds the first reli-
able literary reference to loans at interest
in the fourth century BC. Peng (1994:98-
101) notes that the earliest surviving re-
cords (the oracle bones and inscriptions)
do not mention loans, but there's no rea-
son they would; he also assembles most
of the available literary references, finds
many references to loans in early peri-
ods, and concludes that there's no way to
know whether to take them seriously. By
the Warring States period, however, there
is abundant evidence for local usurers,
and all the usual abuses.

30. Yan tie lun I 2/4b2-6, in Gale
(1967): 12.

31. Guanzi (73 12), Rickett (1998:397)

32. So around 100 BC, "when flood and
drought come upon them . . . those who
have grain sell at half value, while those
who have not borrow at exorbitant usury.
Then paternal acres change hands; sons
and grandsons are sold to pay debts; mer-
chants make vast profits, and even petty
tradesmen set up business and realize un-
heard of gains" (in Duyvendak 1928:32).
Loans at interest are first documented in
the fourth century BC in China but may
have existed before that (Yang 1971:5). For
a parallel case of child-selling for debt in
early India, Rhys Davids 1922:218.

Chapter Nine

1. Jaspers 1949.

2. Parkes 1959:71.

426

NOTES

3. Or, if one must be even more pre-
cise, we should probably end it in 632 ad,
with the death of the Prophet.

4. Obviously Vedic Hinduism is ear-
lier; I am referring to Hinduism as a self-
conscious religion, which is generally seen
as having taken shape in reaction to Bud-
dhism and Jainism around this time.

5. The date used to be set much earlier,
at 650 or even 700 bc, but recent archaeol-
ogy has called this into question. Lydian
coins still seem to be the earliest, though,
as most of the others have been seem to be
the earliest though.

6. Prakash & Singh 1968, Dhavalikar
1974, Kosambi 1981, Gupta & Hardaker
1995. The latest accepted dates for the ap-
pearance of coinage in India, based on ra-
diocarbon analysis, is circa 400 bc (Erdosy
1988:115, 1995:113).

7. Kosambi (1981) notes that there
seems to be a direct connection between
the first of these and Bronze Age Harap-
pan cities: "even after the destruction of
Mohenjo Daro, which is entirely a trade
city as shown by its fine weights and poor
weapons, the traders persisted, and con-
tinued to use the very accurate weights
of that period." (ibid:9i). Given what we
know of Mesopotamia, with which the
Harappan civilization was in close con-
tact, it also seems reasonable to assume
that they continued to employ older com-
mercial techniques, and, indeed, "promis-
sory notes" do appear as familiar practices
in our earliest literary sources, such as the
Jakatas (Rhys Davids 1901:16, Thapar
1995:125, Fiser 2004:194), even if these are
many centuries later. Of course, in this
case, the marks were presumably meant
to confirm the accuracy of the weight, to
show that it hadn't been further trimmed,
but the inspiration of earlier credit prac-
tices seems likely. Kosambi later con-
firms this: "The marks would correspond
to modern countersignatures on bills or
cheques cleared through business houses."
(1996:178-79)

8. Our first literary record of coinage
in China is of a kingdom that reformed its

currency system in 524 BC — which means
that it already had a currency system,
and presumably had for some time (Li
1985:37*) •

9. Schaps 2006:34. For a similar recent
argument, Schoenberger 2008.

10. Of course the very first coins were
of fairly high denominations and quite
possibly used for paying taxes and fees,
and for buying houses and cattle more
than for everyday purchases (Kraay 1964,
Price 1983, Schaps 2004, Vickers 1985).
A real market society in Greece, for in-
stance, could only be said to exist when,
as in the fifth century, ordinary citizens
went to the market carrying minuscule
coins of stamped silver or copper in their
cheeks.

11. First proposed by Cook (1958),
the explanation has since lost favor
(Price 1983, Kraay 1964, Wallace 1987,
Schaps 2004:96-101; though cf. Ingham
2004:100) — largely, on the argument that
one cannot pay soldiers with coins un-
less there are already markets with people
willing to accept the coins. This strikes
me as a weak objection, since the absence
of coinage does not imply the absence of
either money or markets; almost all par-
ties to the debate (e.g., Balmuth [1967,
1971, 1975, 2001) who argues that irregular
pieces of silver were already in wide use
as currency, and Le Rider (2001), Seaford
(2004:318-37) or for that matter Schaps
(2004:222-35), who argue that they were
not numerous enough to be a viable every-
day currency, seem to give much consid-
eration to the possibility that most market
trade took place on credit. Anyway, as
I've noted earlier, it would be easy enough
for the state to ensure that the coins be-
came acceptable currency simply by in-
sisting that they were the only acceptable
means of payment for obligations to the
state itself.

12. Most of the earliest known Greek
bankers were of Phoenician descent, and
it's quite possible that they first intro-
duced the concept of interest there (Hud-
son 1992).

NOTES

427

13. Elayi &C Elayi 1992.

14. Starr 1977:113; see Lee 2000.

15. It's interesting to note that, to our
knowledge, the great trading nations did
not produce much in the way of great art
or philosophy.

16. The great exception was of course
Sparta, which refused to issue its own
coinage but developed a system whereby
aristocrats adopted a strict military life-
style and trained permanently for war.

17. Aristotle himself noted the con-
nection when he emphasized that the
constitution of a Greek state could be
predicted by the main army of its mili-
tary: aristocracies if they relied on cavalry
(since horses were very expensive), oligar-
chies in the case of heavy infantry (since
armor was not cheap), democracy in the
case of light infantry or navies (since any-
one could wield a sling or row a boat)
{Politics 4.3.i289b33-44, 13.1297^6-24,
6.7.132136-14).

18. Keyt (1997:103) summarizing Poli-
tics I304b27~3i.

19. Thucydides (6.97.7) claimed that
20,000 escaped from the mines in 421 bc,
which is probably exaggerated, but most
sources estimate at least 10,000 for most
of that century, generally working shack-
led and under atrocious conditions (Rob-
inson 1973).

20. Ingham 2004:99-100.

21. MacDonald 2006:43.

22. On Alexander's armies monetary
needs, Davies 1996:80 in turn, 83; on his
logistics more generally, Engels 1978. The
figure 120,000 includes not only actual
troops but servants, camp-followers, and
so forth.

23. Green 1993:366.

24. The Roman institution was called
nexum, and we don't know entirely how
it worked: i.e., whether it was a form of
labor contract, whereby one worked off
the debt for a fixed term, or something
more like African pawn systems, where
the debtor — and his or her children —
served in conditions roughly like those of
a slave until redemption (see Testart 2002

for the possibilities). See Buckler 1895,
Brunt 1974, Cornell 1994:266-67, 330-32.

25. Hence, most of the scandalous sto-
ries that sparked uprisings against debt
bondage centered on dramatic cases of
physical or sexual abuse; of course, once
debt bondage was abolished and house-
hold labor was instead supplied by slaves,
such abuse was considered normal and
acceptable.

26. The first bronze coins paid to sol-
diers seem to have been coined around
400 BC (Scheidel 2006), but this was the
traditional date according to Roman
historians.

27. What I am arguing flies in the face
of much of the conventional scholarly
wisdom, summed up best perhaps by Mo-
ses Finley when he wrote "in Greece and
Rome the debtor class rebelled; whereas
in the Near East they did not" — and
therefore reforms like those of Nehemiah
were at least minor, temporary palliatives.
Near Eastern rebellion took a different
form; moreover, Greek and Roman solu-
tions were both more limited and more
temporary than he supposed.

28. Ioannatou 2006 for a good exam-
ple. Cataline's conspiracy of 63 BC was an
alliance of indebted aristocrats and des-
perate peasants. On continued Republican
debt and land redistribution campaigns:
Mitchell 1993.

29. Howgego makes this point: "If less
is heard of debt under the Principate it
may well be because political stability re-
moved the opportunity for the expression
of discontent. This argument is supported
by the way in which debt re-emerges as an
issue at times of open revolt" (1992:13).

30. Plutarch, Moralia, 828f-83ia.

31. There is, needless to say, a vast
and conflicting literature, but probably
the best source is Banaji (2001). He em-
phasizes in the late empire, "debt was the
essential means by which employers en-
forced control over the supply of labour,
fragmenting the solidarity of workers and
'personalizing' relations between owners

428

NOTES

and employees" (ibid:205), a situation he
compares interestingly to India.

32. Kosambi 1966, Sharma 1968, Misra
1976, Altekar 1977:109-38. Contemporary
Indian historians, who refer to them as
gana-sanghas ("tribal assemblies"), tend
to dismiss them as warrior aristocracies
supported by populations of helots or
slaves, though of course, Greek city-states
could be described the same way.

33. In other words, they looked more
like Sparta than like Athens. The slaves
were also collectively owned (Chakravarti
1985:48-49.) Again, one has to wonder
how much this was really the general rule,
but I yield to the predominant scholarly
opinion on such matters.

34. Arthasastra 2.12.27. See Sc-
haps 2006:18 for a nice comparative
commentary.

35. Thapar 2002:34, Dikshitar 1948.

36. There were also taxes, of course,
usually ranging from 1/6 to 1/4 of total
yield (Kosambi 1996:316; Sihag 2005), but
taxes also served as a way to bring goods
to the market.

37. So Kosambi 1966:152-57.

38. And wage labor, two phenomena
that, as so often in the ancient world,
largely overlapped: the common phrase
for workers used in texts from the peri-
od was dasa-karmakara, "slave-hireling"
with the assumption that slaves and la-
borers worked together and were barely
distinguishable (Chakravarti 1985). On the
predominance of slavery, see Sharma 1958,
Rai 1981. The extent is contested, but ear-
ly Buddhist texts do seem to assume that
any wealthy family would normally have
domestic slaves — which certainly wasn't
true in other periods.

39. Punch-marked coins were also
eventually replaced, after Alexander's
brief conquest of the Indus Valley and
his establishment of Greek colonists in
Afghanistan, by Aegean-style coins, ulti-
mately causing the entire Indian tradition
to disappear (Kosambi 1981, Gupta &
Hardaker 1985.)

40. It's referred to as the "Pillar Edict"
(Norman 1975:16).

41. There's a good deal of debate as
to when: Schopen (1994) emphasizes there
is little evidence for substantial Buddhist
monasteries until the first century ad, per-
haps three centuries later. This has a great
deal of bearing on monetarization too, as
we'll see.

42. "The private trader was regarded
as a thorn (kantaka), a public enemy just
short of a national calamity, by Arth. 4.2,
taxed and fined for malpractices of which
many are taken for granted" (Kosambi
1996:243).

43. Those wishing to become monks
had to first affirm that they were not
themselves debtors (just as they also had
to promise they weren't runaway slaves);
but there was no rule saying the monas-
tery itself could not lend money. In China,
as we'll see, providing easy credit terms
for peasants came to be seen as a form of
charity.

44. Similarly, Buddhist monks are not
allowed to see an army, if they can pos-
sibly avoid it (Pacittiya, 48-51).

45. Lewis 1990.

46. Wilbur 1943, Yates 2002. The state
of Qin, during the Warring States period,
not only allowed for army officers to be
allocated slaves by rank, but for mer-
chants, craftsmen, and the "poor and idle"
to themselves be "confiscated as slaves"
(Lewis 1990:61-62).

47. Scheidel (2006, 2007, 2009) has
considered the matter at length and con-
cluded that Chinese currency took the
unusual form that it did for two maibn
reasons: (1) the historical coincidence that
Qin (which used bronze coins) defeated
Chu (which used gold) in the civil wars,
and subsequent conservatism, and (2) the
lack of a highly paid professional army,
which allowed the Chinese state to act
like the early Roman republic, which also
limited itself to bronze coins for peasant
conscripts — but unlike the Roman repub-
lic, was not surrounded by states accus-
tomed to other forms of currency.

NOTES

429

48. Pythagoras was, as far as we know,
the first to take the latter course, found-
ing a secret political society that for a
while had control over the levers of politi-
cal power in the Greek cities of southern
Italy.

49. Hadot 1995, 2002. In the ancient
world, Christianity was recognized as a
philosophy largely because it had its own
forms of ascetic practice.

50. On the Tillers: Graham 1979,
1994:67-110. They seem to have flour-
ished around the same time as Mo Di,
the founder of Mohism (roughly 470-391
bc). The Tillers ultimately vanished, leav-
ing behind mainly a series of treatises on
agricultural technology, but they had a
tremendous influence on early Taoism —
which, in turn, became the favorite phi-
losophy for peasant rebels for many cen-
turies to come, starting with the Yellow
Turbans of 184 ad. Eventually, Taoism
was displaced by messianic forms of Bud-
dhism as the favorite ideology of rebel-
lious peasants.

51. Wei-Ming 1986, Graham 1989,
Schwartz 1986.

52. Legend has it that after one Py-
thagorean mathematician discovered the
existence of irrational numbers, other
members of the sect took him on a cruise
and dropped him overboard. For an ex-
tended discussion of the relation of early
Pythagoreanism (530-400 bc) to the rise of
a cash economy, see Seaford 2004:266-75).

53. At least if my own experience in
Madagascar is anything to go on.

54. War is quite similar: it's also an
area in which it's possible to imagine ev-
eryone as playing a game where the rules
and stakes are unusually transparent.
The main difference is that in war one
does care about one's fellow soldiers. On
the origins of our own notion of "self-
interest," see chapter 11 below.

55. Not to be confused with the unre-
lated Confucian term li, meaning "ritual"
or "etiquette." Later, // became the word
for "interest" — that is, not only "self-
interest," but also "interest payment"

(e.g., Cartier 1988:26-27). I should note
that my argument here is slightly uncon-
ventional. Schwartz (1985:145-51) notes
that in Confucius, "profit" has a purely
pejorative meaning, and he argues that it
was subversively reinterpreted by Mo Di.
I find it unlikely that Confucius represents
conventional wisdom at this time; while
his writings are the earliest we have on the
subject, his position was clearly marginal
for centuries after his death. I am assum-
ing instead that the Legalist tradition re-
flected the common wisdom even before
Confucius — or certainly, Mencius.

56. Zhan Guo Ce ("Strategies of the
Warring States") no. 109, 7.175

57. Annuals of Lu Buwei, 8/5.4.

58. See Ames (1994) for a discussion of
key terms: si li (self-interest), shi (strategic
advantage), and li min (public profit).

59. Book of Lord Shang 947-48,
Duyvendak 1928:65.

60. Kosambi's translation (1965:142);
the Encyclopedia Britannica prefers "hand-
book on profit" (entry for "Carvaka"); Al-
tekar (1977:3), "the science of wealth."

61. Nag & Dikshitar 1927:15. Kosambi
argues that the Mauryan polity was thus
based on a fundamental contradiction: "a
moral law-abiding population ruled by a
completely amoral king" (1996:237). Yet
such a situation is hardly unusual, before
or since.

62. Thucydides 5.85-113 (cf. 3.36-49).
The event took place in 416 bc, around the
same time that Lord Shang and Kautilya
were writing. Significantly, Thucydides'
own objections to such behavior are not
explicitly moral but center on showing
that it was not to the "long-term prof-
it" of the empire (Kallet 2001:19). O"
Thucydides' own utilitarian materialism
more generally, see Sahlins 2004.

63. Mozi 67B, in Hansen 2000:137

64. Mencius 4.1, in Duyvendak
1928:76-77. He appears to be referring to
a distinction originally made by Confucius
himself: "the superior person understands
what is right while the inferior person

430

NOTES

only understands what is personally prof-
itable" (Analects 7.4.16).

65. The Mohist path — overtly embrace
financial logic — was the less well trod-
den. We've already seen how in India
and Greece, attempts to frame morality
as debt went nowhere: even the Vedic
principles are ostensibly about liberation
from debt, which was also, as we've seen,
a central theme in Israel.

66. Leenhardt 1979:164.

67. This interpretation does fly fairly
directly in the face of the main thrust of
scholarship on the issue, which tends in-
stead to emphasize the "transcendental"
nature of Axial Age ideas (e.g., Schwartz
1975, Eisenstadt 1982, 1984, 1986, Roetz
1993, Bellah 2005).

68. The Greek system actually began
with Fire, Air, and Water, and the Indian
with Fire, Water, and Earth, though in
each case there were numerous elabora-
tions. The Chinese elemental system was
fivefold: Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water.

69. In Christianity, at least in the Au-
gustinian tradition, this is quite explicit:
the material world does not in any sense
partake of God; God is not in it; it was
simply made by Him {De civitate dei
4.12) — this radical separation of spirit and
nature being — according to Henri Frank-
fort (1948:342-44) — a peculiarity of the
Judaeo-Christian tradition. That same
Augustinian tradition, though, also drew
on Plato to insist that reason, on the other
hand — the abstract principle which allows
us to understand such things, and which
is entirely separate from matter — does par-
take of the divine (see Hoitenga 1991:112-
14, for the conflict in Augustine's own ideas
here).

70. Shell's essay "The Ring of Gyges"
(1978) has already been cited in the last
chapter, in my discussion of Plato; Seaford
1998, 2004.

71. This is based on the fact that Mi-
letus was one of the cities, if not the first
city, to produce coins of small enough

denominations that they could be used for
everyday transactions (Kraay 1964:67).

72. Heraclitus was from the nearby Io-
nian city of Ephesus and Pythagoras origi-
nally from the Ionian island of Samos.
After Ionia was incorporated into the
Persian empire, large numbers of Ionians
fled to southern Italy, which then became
the center of Greek philosophy, again, at
just the period when the Greek cities there
became thoroughly monetarized. Athens
became the center of Greek philosophy
only in the fifth century, which is also
when Athens was militarily dominant and
the Athenian "owl" coinage became the
main international currency of the Eastern
Mediterranean.

73. Or as Seaford (2004:208) puts it,
echoing Anaximander's description of his
primal substance, "a distinct, eternal, im-
personal, all-embracing, unlimited, homo-
geneous, eternally moving, abstract, regu-
lating substance, destination for all things
as well as their origin" (or, at least, "all
things" that were available for purchase.)

74. Seaford 2004:136-46; see Picard
1975; Wallace 1987; Harris 2oo8a:io. Pure-
ly "fiduciary" money is of course what
a metallist would call "fiat" or "token"
money, or a Keynesian, "chartal money."
Despite Finley's arguments to the con-
trary (1980:141, 196), just about all ancient
money was fiduciary to some extent. It's
easy to see why coins would ordinarily
circulate at a higher face value than their
weight in gold or silver, since the price of
the latter would tend to fluctuate, but the
moment the coin's face value was lower
than that of its metal content, there would
be no reason not to melt it down.

75. In the case of truly large states like
the Roman or Mauryan empires, inflation
did eventually result, but the full effects
were not felt for at least a century (see In-
gham 2002:101-4, Kessler & Temin 2008,
Harris 2008b for some good discussions of
the Roman situation.)

76. Seaford 2004:138-39.

NOTES

431

77. I am partly inspired here by Marcel
Mauss's arguments about of the concept
of substance (Allen 1998).

78. Hence, as we'll see Aristotle's posi-
tion that a coin was only a social con-
vention (Nicomachean Ethics 1133329-31)
remained very much a minority view in
the ancient world. It did become the pre-
dominant view later, in the Middle Ages.

79. He is known as Payasi in the
Buddhist scriptures, Paesi in the Jaina
(see Bronkhorst 2007:143-159 for a good
discussion of these earliest Indian mate-
rialists; for the later materialist school,
to which Kautilya is said to belong, see
Chattopadhyaya 1994. Jaspers (1951:135),
writing of India, notes the appearance of
"all philosophical trends, including skep-
ticism and materialism, sophistry and
nihilism" — a significant list, since it's ob-
viously not a list of "all" philosophical
trends at all, but only the most materialist.

80. In The Republic it is rejected out
of hand. In India, as I've argued, the Hin-
du tradition only appears to embrace it.
Buddhists, Jains, and other oppositional
philosophies didn't use the term at all.

81. Philo of Alexandria, writing around
the time of Christ, says of the Essenes: "not
a single slave is to be found among them,
but all are free, exchanging services with
each other, and they denounce the owners
of slaves, not merely for their injustice in
outraging the law of equality, but also for
their impiety in annulling the statute of
nature" (Quod omnis probus liber sit 79).
The Therapeutae, another Jewish group,
group rejected all forms of property, but
looked on slavery "to be a thing abso-
lutely and wholly contrary to nature, for
nature has created all men free" {De Vita
Contemplative! 70). The similarity to Ro-
man law ideas is notable. Jewish groups
are unusually well documented; if similar
sects existed in, say, Thrace, or Numidia,
we probably wouldn't know.

82. Later legend had it that his father
was a king and he grew up in a palace, but
the Sakya "king" of the time was in fact

a elected and rotating position (Kosambi
1965:96).

Chapter Ten

1. Coins produced by the barbarian
successor states generally did not have a
great deal of gold or silver in them; as a
result they tended to circulate only within
the principality of the king or baron who
issued them and were largely useless for
trade.

2. Dockes (1979:62-70) provides a good
overview of the situation — literally, since
current understandings of the extent of
Roman slave estates in France are based
largely on aerial photography. Over time
even the free communities largely ended
up in debt peonage of one sort or another,
or bound to the land as serfs (in Latin,
coloni) .

3. As we've seen, Kosambi saw
Magadha as a peak of monetarization.
R.S. Sharma (2001:119-62) argues that
coinage remained commonplace under the
Guptas (280 to 550 ad) but then abruptly
disappeared almost everywhere thereaf-
ter. However, even if he is right that the
total number of coins in circulation did
not diminish until then, he himself points
out (ibid:i43) that the total population of
the Ganges Plain almost tripled over this
period, so even this would mark a steady
decline.

4. For an overview: R.S. Sharma 1965,
Kane 1968 III:4ii— 61, Chatterjee 1971.
Schopen (1994) especially emphasizes that
the techniques grow more sophisticated
over the course of the Middle Ages, for
instance, developing bookkeeping tech-
niques for combining compound interest
with partial repayments.

5. Documents on the regulation of mo-
nastic affairs pay a great deal of atten-
tion to the details: how when the money
was lent out, contracts would be signed,
sealed, and deposited in the temple before

432

NOTES

witnesses; how a surety or pledge worth
twice the amount of the loan should be
turned over, how "devout lay brothers"
should be assigned to manage the invest-
ment, and so forth (Schopen 1994).

6. From the Arab dinar, which in turn
derives from the Roman denarius. It is
unclear whether such sums were actually
paid in coins at this point: one early mo-
nastic manual, for example, speaking of
objects that might be relegated to the In-
exhaustible Treasuries and thus put out at
interest, mentions "gold and silver, wheth-
er in the form of coins, finished or raw, in
large or small quantities, pure or alloyed,
or whether in the form of utensils, finished
or unfinished" (Mahasamghika Vinaya, in
Gernet 1956 [1995:165]).

7. Fleet 1888: 260-62, as translated in
Schopen 1994:532-33. One need hardly
remark on the irony of this emphasis on
eternity emerging within Buddhism, a re-
ligion founded on the recognition of the
impermanence of all worldly attachments.

8. The commercial loans are docu-
mented from an inscription at the West
Indian monastery at Karle (Levi 1938: 145;
Gernet 1956 [1995:164]; Barreau 1961:444-
47), the assemblies from later Tamil
temples (Ayyar 1982:40-68, R.S. Sharma
1965.) It is not clear whether some of these
were commercial loans, or more like the
later Buddhist custom of jisa still current
in Tibet, Bhutan, and Mongolia, where an
individual, or collective, or group of fami-
lies wishing to support a specific ceremony
or, say, an educational project might re-
ceive a 500-rupee loan "in perpetuity" and
then be expected to provide 800 rupees
a year to organize the ceremony. The re-
sponsibilities are then inherited, though
the "loan" can be transferred (Miller 1961,
Murphy 1961).

9. Kalhana, Rajatarangini 7.1091-98;
see Basham 1948, Riepe I96i:44n49.) The
monks were apparently Ajivkas, who still
existed at this time.

10. Naskar 1996, R.S. Sharma 2001:45-
66, on the Puranic description of the
"Kali age," which seems to be the way

later Brahmins referred to the period from
roughly Alexander's reign to the early
Middle Ages, a period of insecurity and
unrest when foreign dynasties ruled much
of India, and caste hierarchies were widely
challenged or rejected.

11. Manusmrti 8.5.257. Significantly,
the debt to other humans vanishes entirely
in these texts.

12. Manusmrti 8.5.270-72. A Sudra's
tongue would also be cut off for insulting
a member of the twice-born castes (8.270).

13. R.S. Sharma 1958, 1987, Chauhan
2003.

14. "A Sudra, though emancipated by
his master, is not released from a state
of servitude, for a state which is natural
to him, by whom can he be divested?"
(Manusmrti, Yajfiavalkya Smrti 8.5.419),
or even "Sudras must be reduced to slav-
ery, either by purchase or without pur-
chase, because they were created by God
for the sake or serving others (8.5.413).

15. Kautilya allowed 60 percent for
commercial loans, 120 percent "for enter-
prises that involve journeys through for-
ests," and twice that for those that involve
shipping goods by sea (Arthasastra 3. 11;
one later code, Yajfiavalkya Smrti 2.38
follows this.)

16. Yajfiavalkya Smrti 2.37, Manusmrti
8.143, Visnusmrti 5.6.2, see Kane 1968
III:42i.

17. R.S. Sharma 1965:68. Similarly,
early law-codes specified that anyone who
defaulted on a debt should be reborn as a
slave or even a domestic animal in their
creditor's household: one later Chinese
Buddhist text was even more exact, speci-
fying that for each eight wen defaulted,
one must spend one day as an ox, or for
each seven, one day as a horse (Zhuang
Chun in Peng I994:244ni7)

18. Dumont (1966).

19. Gyan Prakash (2003:184) makes
this point for the colonial period: when
one-time caste hierarchies began to be
treated instead as matters of debt bond-
age, subordinates turned into persons who

NOTES

433

had equal rights, but whose rights were
temporarily "suspended."

20. To be fair, one could also argue
that indebted peasants are also likely to be
in command of more resources, and thus
be more capable of organizing a rebel-
lion. We know very little about popular
insurrections in Medieval India (though
see Guha (1999). Palat (1986, 1988:205-15;
Kosambi 1996:392-93), but the total num-
ber of such revolts seems to have been rel-
atively low in comparison to Europe and
certainly in comparison to China, where
rebellion was almost ceaseless.

21. "No one knows just how many re-
bellions have taken place in Chinese his-
tory. From the official record there were
several thousand incidents within just
three years from 613 to 615 ad, probably
one thousand events a year (Wei Z. ad
656: ch. "Report of the Imperial Histori-
ans"). According to Parsons, during the
period 1629-44, there were as many as
234,185 insurrections in China, averaging
43 events per day, or 1.8 outbreaks per
hour" (Deng 1999:220).

22. Following Deng (1999).

23. Huang 1999:231.

24. These loans appear to have been
an extension of the logic of the state gra-
naries, which stockpiled food; some to sell
at strategic moments to keep prices low,
some to distribute free in times of famine;
some to loan at low interest to provide an
alternative to usurers.

25. Huang op cit; cf. Zhuoyun & Dull
1980:22-24. For his complex currency re-
forms: Peng 1994:111-14.

26. Generally, interest rates were set at
a maximum of 20 percent and compound
interest was banned. Chinese authorities
eventually also adopted the Indian prin-
ciple that interest should not be allowed
to exceed the principal (Cartier 1988:28;
Yang 1971:92-103).

27. Braudel 1979; Wallerstein 1991,
2001.

28. I am here especially following
the work of Boy Bin Wong (1997, 2002;
also Mielants 2001, 2007.) Granted, most

Braudelans only see later dynasties like the
Ming as fully embodying this principle,
but I think it can be projected backwards.

29. So, for instance, while markets
themselves were considered beneficial, the
government also systematically intervened
to prevent price fluctuations, stockpiling
commodities when they were cheap and
releasing them if prices rose. There were
periods of Chinese history when rulers
made common cause with merchants, but
the result was usually a major popular
backlash (Deng 1999:146).

30. Pommeranz 1998, Goldstone 2002
for an introduction to the vast literature
on comparative standards of living. India
was actually doing rather well also for
most of its history.

31. Ziircher 1958:282.

32. Gernet 1956 (1999: 241-42); for the
following discussion see Gernet i960, Jan
1965, Kieschnick 1997, Benn 1998, 2007.

33. Tsan-ning (919-1001 ad) quoted
in Jan 1965:263. Others appealed to the
history of bodhisattvas and pious kings
who had made gifts of their own bodies,
such as the king who, in time of famine,
leapt to his death to be transformed into a
mountain of flesh, replete with thousands
of heads, eyes, lips, teeth, and tongues,
which for ten thousand years only grew
larger no matter how much of it humans
and animals ingested (Benn 2007:95, 108;
cf. Ohnuma 2007).

34. Tu Mu, cited in Gernet 1956
(1995:245).

35. This might come as something of a
surprise, since the phrase is used so often
in contemporary Western popular usage,
"karmic debt" becoming something of a
New Age cliche. But it seems to strike
a much more intuitive chord with Euro-
Americans than it ever did in India. De-
spite the close association of debt and sin
in the Indian tradition, most early Bud-
dhist schools avoided the concept — largely
because it implied a continuity of the self,
which they saw as ephemeral and ulti-
mately illusory. The exception were the
Sammitiya, called "personalists" as they

434

NOTES

did believe in an enduring self, who de-
veloped the notion of avipranasa, where-
by the results of good or bad actions —
karma — "endure like a sheet of paper on
which a debt is inscribed" as an uncon-
scious element of the self that passes from
one life to another (Lamotte 1997:22-24,
86-90; Lusthaus 2002:209-10). The idea
might have died with that sect had it not
been taken up by the famous Mahayana
philosopher Nagarjuna, who compared
it to an "imperishable promissory note"
(Kalupahana 1991:54-55, 249; Pasadika
1997). His Madhyamaka school in turn
became the Sanlun or "Three Treatise"
school in China; the notion of karmic debt
was taken up in particular by the "Three
Stages" or "Three Levels" school created
the monk Hsin-Hsing (540-94 ad) (Hub-
bard 2001).

36. Commentary on the Dharma of the
Inexhaustible Storehouse of the Mahay-
ana Universe, as translated by Hubbard
(2001:265), w'tn a few changes based on
Gernet (1956 [1995:246]).

37. In Hubbord 2001:266.

38. Dao Shi, in Cole 1998:117. Cole's
book provides an excellent summary
of this literature (see also Ahem 1973,
Teiser 1988, Knapp 2004, Oxfeld 2005).
Some Medieval texts focus exclusively on
the mother, others on parents generally.
Interestingly, the same notion of an infi-
nite and unpayable "milk-debt" to one's
mother also appears in Turkey (White
2004:75-76).

39. Sutra for the Recompense of Grati-
tude cited in Baskind 2007:166. My "four
billion years" translates "kalpa," which
is technically 4.32 billion years. I also
changed "them" for parents to "her" for
mother since the context refers to a man
who cut his own flesh specifically for his
mother's sake.

40. Chinese Buddhists did not invent
the pawnshop, but they appear to have
been the first to sponsor them on a large
scale. On the origins of pawnbroking
in general, see Hardaker 1892, Kuznets
r933- On China specifically: Gernet 1956

[1995:170-73], Yang 1971:71-73, Whelan
1979. In a remarkable parallel, the first
"formal" pawnshops in Europe also
emerged from monasteries for similar
purposes: the monti di pieta or "banks
that take pity" created by the Franciscans
in Italy in the fifteenth century. (Peng
1994:245, also makes note of the parallel.)

41. Gernet 1956 [1995:142-86], Ch'en
1964:262-65; Collins 1986:66-71; Peng
1994:243-45. It would seem that Taoist mon-
asteries, which also multiplied in this period,
banned making loans (Kohn 2002:76), per-
haps in part to mark a distinction.

42. Gernet 1956 [1995:228], where he
famously wrote, "the donors to the In-
exhaustible Treasuries were sharehold-
ers, not in the economic domain but that
of religion." As far as I know, the only
contemporary scholar who has fully em-
braced the premise that this was indeed
an early form of capitalism is Randall
Collins (1986) who sees similar monastic
capitalism in later Medieval Europe as
well. The accepted Chinese historiogra-
phy has tended to see the first "shoots of
capitalism" developing later, in the Song,
which was much less hostile to merchants
than other dynasties, followed by a full
embrace of the market — but firm rejection
of capitalism — in the Ming and Qing. The
key question is the organization of labor,
and in Tang times this remains somewhat
opaque, since even if statistics were avail-
able, which they're not, it's difficult to
know what terms like "serf," "slave," and
"wage-laborer" actually meant in practice.

43. Gernet 1956 [1995:116-39], Ch'en
1964:269-71, on land reclamation and mo-
nastic slaves.

44. "It is claimed that the purpose of
this generosity is to relieve the poor and
orphans. But in fact there is nothing to it
but excess and fraud. This is not a legitimate
business" Gernet 1956 (1995:104-5, 211).

45. Gernet 1956 [1995:22].

46. See Adamek 2005, Walsh 2007.

47. This is probably why abstractions
like Truth, Justice, and Freedom are so
often represented as women.

NOTES

435

48. Marco Polo observed the practice
in the southern province of Yunnan in the
thirteenth century: "But when they have
any business with one another, they take
a round or square piece of stick, and split
it in two; and one takes one half and
the other takes the other half. But be-
fore they split it, they make two or three
notches in it, or as many as they wish. So,
when one of them comes to pay another,
he gives him the money or whatever it
is, and gets back the piece of stick the
other had" (Benedetto 1931:193). See also
Yang 1971:92, Kan 1978, Peng 1994:320,
330, 508, Trombert 1995:12-15. Tallies of
this sort seem, according to Kan, to have
preceded writing; and one legend claims
that the same man, a minister to the Yel-
low Emperor, invented both writing and
tally contracts simultaneously (Trombert

I995:i3)-

49. Graham 1960:179.

50. Actually the similarity was noticed
in antiquity as well: Laozi (Daodejing 27)
speaks of those who can "count without a
tally, secure a door without a lock." Most
famously, he also insisted "when wise
men hold the left tally pledge, they do not
press their debtors for their debts. Men of
virtue hold on to the tally; men lacking
virtue pursue their claims" (stanza 79).

51. Or one might better say, turning
them at one snap from monetary debts
to moral ones, since the very fact that we
know the story implies he was eventually
rewarded (Peng 1994:100). It is probably
significant that the word fu, meaning
"tally," also could mean "an auspicious
omen granted to a prince as a token of
his appointment by Heaven" (Mathews
1931:283). Similarly, Peng notes a passage
from Strategems of the Warring States,
about a lord attempting to win popular
support: "Feng hurried to Bi, where he
had the clerks assemble all those people
who owed debts, so that his tallies might
be matched against theirs. When the tal-
lies had been matched, Feng brought forth
a false order to forgive these debts, and he
burned the tallies. The people all cheered"

(ibid:ioon9). For Tibetan parallels, see
Uebach 2008.

52. Similar things happened in Eng-
land, where early contracts were also bro-
ken in half in imitation of tally sticks: the
phrase "indentured servant" derives from
this practice, since these were contract
laborers; the word actually derives from
the "indentations" or notches on the tally
stick used as a contract (Blackstone 1827
I:2i8).

53. L. Yang 1971:52; Peng 1994:329-31.
Peng perceptively notes "this method of
matching tallies to withdraw cash was ac-
tually an outgrowth of the process used in
borrowing money, except that the move-
ment over time of loans was transformed
into a movement over space" (1994:330).

54. They were called "deposit shops" —
and L. Yang (1971:78-80) calls them
"proto-banks." Peng (1994:323-27) notes
something along these lines was already
operating, at least for merchants and trav-
elers, under the Tang, but the government
had strict controls preventing bankers
from reinvesting the money.

55. The practice began in Sichuan,
which had its own peculiar form of cash,
in iron, not bronze, and therefore much
more unwieldy.

56. Peng 1994:508, also 515, 833. All
this is very much like the token money
that circulated in much of Europe in the
Middle Ages.

57. The most important scholarly ex-
ponent of this view is von Glahn (1994,
though Peng [1994] holds to something
close), and it seems the prevailing one
among economists, popular and otherwise.

58. Diagram from MacDonald 2003:65.

59. One of the favorite images em-
ployed when remembering the rule of
the Legalists, under the much-hated First
Dynasty, was that they constructed great
brass cauldrons, in which each law was
openly and explicitly spelled out — then
used them to boil criminals alive.

60. See Bulliet 1979 (also Lapidus
2003:141-46) on the process of conver-
sion. Bulliet also emphasizes (ibid:i29)

436

NOTES

that the main effect of mass conversion
was to make the ostensible justification of
government, as protector and expander of
the faith, seem increasingly hollow. Mass
popular support for caliphs and political
leaders only reemerged in periods, like
the Crusades or during the reconquista in
Spain, when Islam itself seemed under at-
tack; as of course, for similar reasons, it
has in much of the Islamic world today.

61. "Most of the time the lower circles
paid their taxes through their heads, and
looked after themselves. Similarly the gov-
ernment received the taxes and provided
some sort of security, and apart from this,
occupied itself with matters of concern to
itself: external war, patronage of learning
and the arts, a life of luxurious ostenta-
tion" (Pearson 1982:54).

62. The proverb appears, attributed
to the Prophet himself, in al-Ghazali's
Ihya', kitab al-'Ilm, 284, followed by a
long list of similar statements: "Sa'id Bin
Musaiyab said, 'When you see a religious
scholar visiting a prince, avoid him, for he
is a thief.' Al-Auza'i said, 'There is noth-
ing more detestable to Allah than a reli-
gious scholar who visits an official' . . ."
etc. This attitude has by no means disap-
peared. A strong majority of Iranian aya-
tollahs, for example, oppose the idea of an
Islamic state, on the grounds that it would
necessarily corrupt religion.

63. Lombard 1947, Grierson i960. This
is often represented as a wise policy of re-
fusal to "debase" the coinage, but it might
equally be read as meaning that the ca-
liph's signature added no additional value.
An experiment with Chinese-style paper
money in Basra in 1294 failed, as no one
was willing to accept money backed only
by state trust (Ash tor 1976:257).

64. MacDonald 2003:64. Gradually
this became unsupportable and Muslim
empires adopted the more typically Me-
dieval iqta' system, whereby soldiers were
granted the tax revenues from specific
territories.

65. Neither have slaves been employed
as soldiers since, except in temporary

and anomalous circumstance (e.g., by the
Manchus, or in Barbados).

66. It seems significant that (1) the "in-
quisition" of 832, the failed Abbasid at-
tempt to take control of the ulema; (2) the
most important mass conversion of the
Caliphate's subjects to Islam, peaking
around 825-850; and (3) the definitive as-
cent of Turkish slave soldiers in Abbasid
armies, often dated to 838, all roughly
corresponded in time.

67. Elwahed 1931:111-35. As he puts
it (ibid:i27), "the inalienability of liberty
is one of the fundamental and uncon-
tested principles of Islam." Fathers do
not have the right to sell their children,
and individuals do not have the right to
sell themselves — or at least, if they do, no
courts will recognize any resultant owner-
ship claims. I note that this is the dia-
metrical opposite of the "natural law" ap-
proach that later developed in Europe.

68. There is a certain controversy here:
some scholars, including some contem-
porary Muslim scholars opposed to the
Islamic economics movement, insist that
riba, which is unequivocally condemned
in the Koran, did not originally refer to
"interest" in general, but to a pre-Islamic
Arabian practice of fining late payment by
doubling the money owed, and that the
blanket condemnation of interest is a mis-
interpretation (e.g., Rahman 1964, Kuran
1995). I am in no position to weigh in but,
if true, this would suggest that the ban on
usury really emerged in Iraq itself as part
of the process of the creation of grassroots
Islam, which would actually reinforce my
general argument.

69. The best records we have are ac-
tually from a community of Jewish mer-
chants in Geniza, in twelfth-century Egypt,
who observed the ban on interest even in
dealings with one another. The one area
where we regularly hear of interest being
charged is the one area where coercion
was also regularly employed: that is, in
dealings with kings, viziers, and officials,
who often borrowed large sums of money
at interest — especially, but not exclusively,

NOTES

437

from Jewish or Christian bankers — to pay
their troops. Obliging a request for such
an illegal loan was a dangerous business,
but refusing even more so (for Abbasid
examples, see Ray 1997:68-70, mainly
drawing from Fischel 1937).

70. There were also a whole host of
legal subterfuges (called hiyal) that one
might undertake if one were absolutely
determined to charge interest: for in-
stance, buying one's debtor's house for
the amount of the loan, charging them
rent for it, and then allowing them to buy
it back for the same sum; having one's
debtor agree to buy a certain product
monthly and sell it to one at a discount,
and so forth. Some schools of Islamic law
banned these outright; others merely dis-
approved. It used to be assumed that these
methods were widely employed, since
most economic historians assumed inter-
est to be a necessary element of credit,
but recent research provides no evidence
that they were especially common (for the
older view: Khan 1929, for the new: Ray

i997:58-59)-

71. Mez 1922:448, quoted in Labib
1969:89. Note that Basra, the city where
everyone in the market paid by check, was
also the city where, a century later, Mon-
gol attempts to introduce government-
issue paper money were so doggedly re-
sisted. The word sakk is incidentally the
origin of the English "check." The ulti-
mate origins of sakk are contested: Ashtor
(1972:555) suggests they were Byzantine;
Chosky (1988), Persian.

72. Goitein (1966, 1967, 1973) provides
a detailed summary of financial practic-
es among Jewish merchants in twelfth-
century Egypt. Almost every transaction
involved credit to some degree. Checks,
remarkably similar even in appearance
to the kind used today, were in common
usage — though sealed bags of metal coins
were even more common in everyday
transactions.

73. Though apparently governments
sometimes paid wages by check (Tag El-
Din 2007:69.) I am no doubt underplaying

the government role in all this: there were,
for instance, attempts to set up central
government banks, and certainly usually
a commitment in principle that the gov-
ernment should enforce commercial stan-
dards and regulations. It seems, however,
that this rarely came to much in practice.

74. Udovitch 1970:71-74.

75. Sarakhsi in Udovitch 1975:11, who
has a good discussion of the issues in-
volved. Likewise Ray 1997:59-60.

76. This should surely also be of inter-
est to students of Pierre Bourdieu, who
made a famous argument, based on his
study of Kabyle society in Algeria, that a
man's honor in such a society is a form of
"symbolic capital," analogous to but more
important than economic capital, since it
is possible to turn honor into money but
not the other way around (Bourdieu 1977,
1990). True, the text above does not quite
say this, but one does wonder how much
this is Bourdieu's own insight, and how
much simply reflects the common sense of
his informants.

77. Following K.N. Chaudhuri
(1985:197). The expansion of Islam was
spearheaded by both Sufi brotherhoods
and legal scholars; many merchants dou-
bled as either or both. The scholarly lit-
erature here is unusually rich. See, for in-
stance: Chaudhuri 1985, 1990; Risso 1995;
Subrahmanyam 1996; Barendtse 2002;
Beaujard 2005.

78. In Goody 1996:91.

79. M. Lombard 2003:177-79.

80. Burton's translation; 1934 IV:2oi3.

81. And what's more, officials em-
ployed their own person bankers, and
themselves made extensive use of credit
instruments such as suftaja both for trans-
fer of tax payments, and the secreting
away of ill-gotten gains (Hodgson 1974
1:301, Udovitch 1975:8, Ray 1994:69-71.)

82. "For Mohammed this natural regu-
lation of the market corresponds to a cos-
mic regulation. Prices rise and fall as night
follows day, as low tides follow high, and
price imposition is not only an injustice

438

NOTES

to the merchant, but a disordering of the
natural order of things" (Essid 1995:153).

83. Only very limited exceptions were
made, for instance in times of disaster,
and then most scholars insisted it was
always better to provide direct relief to
the needy than to interfere with market
forces. See Ghazanfar & Islahi 2003, Islahi
2004:31-32; for a fuller discussion of Mo-
hammed's views on price formation, see
Tuma 1965, Essid 1988, 1995.

84. Hosseini 1998:672, 2003:37: "Both
indicate that animals, such as dogs, do not
exchange one bone for another."

85. Hosseini 1998, 2003. Smith says he
visited such a factory himself, which may
well be true, but the example of the eigh-
teen steps originally appears in the entry
"Epingle" in Volume 5 of the French En-
cyclopedic, published in 1755, twenty years
earlier. Hosseini also notes that "Smith's
personal library contained the Latin trans-
lations of some of the works of Persian
(and Arab) scholars of the medieval pe-
riod" (Hosseini 1998:679), suggesting that
he might have lifted them from the origi-
nals directly. Other important sources
for Islamic precedents for later economic
theory include: Rodison 1978, Islahi 1985,
Essid 1988, Hosseini 1995, Ghazanfar
1991, 2000, 2003, Ghazanfar & Islahi
1997, 2003. It is becoming more and more
clear that a great deal of Enlightenment
thought traces back to Islamic philoso-
phy: Decartes' cogito, for example, seems
to derive from Ibn Sina (a.k.a. Avicenna),
Hume's famous point that the observance
of constant conjunctions does not itself
prove causality appears in Ghazali, and
I have myself noticed Immanuel Kant's
definition of enlightenment in the mouth
of a magic bird in the fourteenth-century
Persian poet Rumi.

86. Tusi's Nasirean Ethics, in Sun
2008:409.

87. Ghazanfar 6c Islahi 2003:58; Gha-
zanfar 2003:32-33.

88. So for example among Ghazali's
ethical principles, we find "the buyer
should be lenient when bargaining with

a poor seller and strict when transacting
with a rich seller," and "a person should
be willing to sell to the poor who do not
have the means and should extend credit
to them without the expectation of repay-
ment" (Ghazali lhya Vlum al Din II79-82,
cited in Ghazanfar & Islahi 1997:22) — the
latter of course recalling Luke 6:35.

89. Ghazali in Ghazanfar & Islahi
1997:27.

90. Ibid:32.

91. Ibid:32.

92. Ibid:35. On postmen in Medieval
Islam: Goitein 1964. Ghazali's position
here recalls and is no doubt influenced by
Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics (1121b):
that since money is a social convention
meant to facilitate exchange, diverting it
into usury defies its purpose; but its ul-
timate thrust is quite different, closer to
Thomas Aquinas' argument that money is
basically a measure and that usury distorts
it, and Henry of Ghent's argument that
"money is a medium in exchange and not
a terminus" — unsurprisingly, since Aqui-
nas was likely directly influenced by him
(Ghazanfar 2000).

93. It's hard to overstate this. Even
the famous "Laffer Curve," by which
the Reagan Administration in the 1980s
tried to argue that cutting taxes would
increase government revenue by stimulat-
ing economic activity, is often called the
Khaldun-Laffer curve because it was first
proposed, as a general principle, in Ibn
Khaldun's 1377 Muqaddimah.

94. Goitein 1957 for the rise of the
"Middle Eastern bourgeoisie."

95. "Crying down" acted as a de facto
tax increase, since one would now need
to pay more ecus to make up a tax rate
fixed in shillings. Since wages were fixed
in pounds, shillings, and pence, this also
had the effect of raising their value, and
hence it was usually popular. "Crying up"
by contrast had the effect of lowering the
effective value of the units of account.
This could be useful to reduce a king's —
or his allies' — personal debt measured in
such units, but it also undercut the income

NOTES

439

of wage-earners and those on any sort of
fixed income and so was often protested.

96. Langholm 1979, Wood 2002:73-76.

97. On the patristic literature on usury:
Maloney 1983; Gordon 1989; Moser 2000;
Holman 2002:112-26; Jones 2004:25-30.

98. Matthew 5:42

99. St Basil of Caesarea, Homilia II in
Psalmum XIV (PG 29, 268-69).

100. op cit.

101. op cit.

102. Ambrose De Officiis 2.25.89.

103. Ambrose De Tobia 15:51. See Nel-
son 1949:3-5, Gordon 1989:114-118.

104. Though not entirely. It's worthy
to note that the main supply of slaves to
the empire at this time came from Ger-
manic barbarians outside the empire, who
were acquired either through war or debt.

105. "If each one," he wrote, "after
having taken from his personal wealth
whatever would satisfy his personal
needs, would leave what was superfluous
to those who lack every necessity, there
would be no rich or poor" fin llliud Lu-
cae 49D) — Basil himself had been born an
aristocrat, but he had sold off his landed
estates and distributed the proceeds to the
poor.

106. Homilia II in Psalmum XIV (PG
29, 277C). The reference is to Proverbs
19.17.

107. Summa 8.3.1.3: "since grace is free-
ly given, it excludes the idea of debt ... In
[no] sense does debt imply that God owes
anything to another creature."

108. Clavero (1986) sees this as a basic
conflict over the nature of the contract,
and hence the legal basis of human rela-
tions in European history: usury, and by
extension profit, was denounced, but rent,
the basis of feudal relations, was never
challenged.

109. Gordon 1989:115. "What is com-
merce," wrote Cassiodorus (485-585), "ex-
cept to want to sell dear that which can be
bought cheap? Therefore those merchants
are detestable who, with no consideration
of God's justice, burden their wares more
with perjury than value. Them the Lord

evicted them from the Temple saying, 'Do
not make my Father's house into a den of
thieves" (in Langholm 1996:454).

no. On the Jewish legal tradition
concerning usury, see Stein 1953, 1955;
Kirschenbaum 1985.

in. Poliakov 1977:21.

112. Nelson (1949) assumed that the
"Exception" was often held to apply to re-
lations between Christians and Jews, but
Noonan (1957:101-2) insists that it was
mainly held to apply only to "heretics and
infidels, particularly the Saracens," and by
some, not even to them.

113. Up to 52 percent with security, up
to 120 percent without (Homer 1987:91).

114. Debtor's prisons, in the sense of
prisons exclusively for debtors, existed
in England only after 1263, but the im-
prisonment of debtors has a much longer
history. Above all, Jewish lenders seem
to have been employed as the means of
transforming virtual, credit money into
coinage, collecting the family silver from
insolvent debtors, and turning it over to
royal mints. They also won title to a great
deal of land from defaulting debtors, most
of which ended up in the hands of barons
or monasteries (Singer 1964; Bowers 1983;
Schofield & Mayhew 2002).

115. Roger of Wendower, Flowers of
History 252-53. Roger doesn't name the
victim; in some later versions his name is
Abraham, in others, Isaac.

116. Matthew Prior, in Bolles 1837:13.

117. Or even, for that matter, Ni-
etzsche's fantasies of the origins of justice
in mutilation. Where one was a projection
onto Jews of atrocities actually commit-
ted against Jews, Nietzsche was writing in
an age where actual "savages" were often
punished by similar tortures and mutila-
tions for failure to pay their debts to the
colonial tax authorities, as later became a
most notorious scandal in Leopold's Bel-
gian Congo.

118. Mundill (2002), Brand (2003).

119. Cohn 1972:80.

120. Peter Cantor, in Nelson 1949:10-11.

440

NOTES

121. It was a firm from Cahors, for in-
stance, who received the property of the
English Jews when the latter were finally
expelled in 1290. Though for a long time,
Lombards and Cahorsins were themselves
dependent on royal favor and hardly in
much better position than the Jews. In
France, the kings seemed to expropriate
and expel Jews and Lombards alternately
(Poliakov 1977:42).

122. Noonan 1957:18-19; Le Goff
1990:23-27.

123. There are two sorts of wealth-
getting, as I have said; one is a part of
household management, the other is retail
trade: the former necessary and honorable,
while that which consists in exchange is
justly censured; for it is unnatural, and a
mode by which men profit from one an-
other. The most hated sort, and with the
greatest reason, is usury, which makes a
profit out of money itself, and not from
the natural object of it. For money was
intended to be used in exchange, but not
to increase at interest. And this term "in-
terest" {tokos), which means the birth
of money from money, is applied to the
breeding of money because the offspring
resembles the parent. "Wherefore of all
modes of getting wealth this is the most
unnatural" (Aristotle, Politics 1258b). The
Nicomachean Ethics (1121b) is equally
damning. For the best general analysis of
the Aristotelean tradition on usury: Lang-
holm 1984.

124. Noonan 1957:105-12; Langholm
1984:50.

125. The technical term for the lost in-
come is lucrum cessans: see O'Brien 1920:
107-10, Noonan 1957:114-28, Langholm
1992:60-61; 1998:75; Spufford 1989:260.

126. As German merchants also did in
the Baltic cities of the Hanseatic alliance.
On the Medici bank as a case in point, see
de Roover 1946, 1963, Parks 2005.

127. The situation in Venice, a pio-
neer in these matters, is telling: there was
no merchant guild, but only craft guilds,
since guilds were essentially created as
protection against the government, and

in Venice, the merchants were the gov-
ernment (MacKenney 1987; Mauro
i993:i59-6o).

128. They were accused of both heresy
and sodomy: see Barber 1978.

129. One cannot "prove" the Islamic
inspiration of European bills of exchange,
but considering the amount of trade be-
tween the two sides of the Mediterra-
nean, denying it seems bizarre. Braudel
(1995:816-17) proposes that the idea must
have reached Europe through Jewish mer-
chants, who we know to have long been
using them in Egypt.

130. On bills of exchange: Usher 1914;
de Roover 1967; Boyer-Xambeu, Deleplace,
and Gillard 1994; Munro 2003^542-46;
Denzel 2006. There were innumerable cur-
rencies, any of which might at any time
be "cried up," "cried down," or otherwise
fluctuate in value. Bills of exchange also
allowed merchants to effectively engage
in currency speculation, and even get
around usury laws, once it became pos-
sible to pay for one bill of exchange by
writing a different bill of exchange, due in
several months' time, for a slightly higher
sum. This was called "dry exchange" (de
Roover 1944), and over time the Church
became increasingly skeptical, causing yet
another round of financial creativity to get
around the laws. It's worthy of note that
the rates of interest on such commercial
loans were generally quite low: twelve
percent at the highest, in dramatic con-
trast to consumer loans. This is a sign of
the increasingly lower risk of such trans-
actions (see Homer 1987 for a history of
interest rates).

131. Lane 1934.

132. "In very many respects, such as
the organization of slave labor, manage-
ment of colonies, imperial administration,
commercial institutions, maritime tech-
nology and navigation, and naval gun-
nery, the Italian city-states were the direct
forerunners of the Portuguese and Span-
ish empires, to the shaping of which the
Italians contributed so heavily, and in the

NOTES

441

profits of which they so largely shared"
(Brady 1997:150).

133. They appear to have used Greek
serfs at first, and sometimes Arabs cap-
tured in the Crusades, and only later, Af-
ricans. Still, this was the economic model
that was eventually transported by Portu-
guese merchants to Atlantic islands like
the Canaries, then eventually to the Carib-
bean (Verlinden 1970, Phillips 1985:93-97,
Solow 1987, Wartburg 1995).

134. Scammell 1981:173-75.

135. Spufford 1988:142

136 On the notion of adventure: Auer-
bach 1946, Nerlich 1977.

137. Duby (1973) makes this point. The
"round table" was originally a type of
tournament, and especially in the 1300s,
it became common to make such tourna-
ments explicit imitations of King Arthur's
court, with knights entering the contests
taking on roles from them: Galahad, Ga-
wain, Bors, etc.

138. Also at a time when technologi-
cal changes, especially the invention of
the crossbow and the rise of professional
armies, were beginning to render knights'
role in combat increasingly irrelevant
(Vance 1973).

139. Kelly 1937:10.

140. See Schoenberger 2008 for a re-
cent and compelling take: comparing the
role of war mobilization in creating mar-
kets in Greece and Rome to Western Eu-
rope in the High Middle Ages.

141. Wolf 1954.

142. A point originally made by Vance
(1986:48). The similarity is more obvious
in the German poet Wolfram von Eschen-
bach's Parzifal, written perhaps twenty
years later, in which knights "roam freely
over Spain, North Africa, Egypt, Syria, to
Baghdad, Armenia, India, Ceylon" (Ad-
olf 1957:113) — and Islamic references are
legion (Adolf 1947, 1957) — that is, areas
known to Europeans of the time only
through trade. The fact that actual mer-
chants, on those rare occasions when they
appear, are never sympathetic characters
has little bearing.

143. Wagner, Die Wibelungen: Welt-
geschichte aus der Sage (1848) — which
in English is "World History as Told in
Saga." I am taking my account of Wag-
ner's argument from another wonderful,
if sometimes extravagant, essay by Marc
Shell called "Accounting for the Grail"
(1992:37-38). Wagner's argument is re-
ally more complicated: it centers on the
failed attempt by the Holy Roman Em-
peror Frederick Barbarossa to subdue the
Italian city-states and the abandonment of
his principle that property can only flow
from the king; instead, we have the rise
of mercantile private property, which is
echoed by financial abstraction.

144. Shell sees the Grail as a trans-
formation of the older notion of the cor-
nucopia or inexhaustible purse in an age
"just beginning to be acquainted with
checks and credit" — noting the connec-
tion of the legend with the Templars, and
fact that Chretien — whose name means
"Christian" — was likely, for that reason,
to have been a converted Jew. Wolfram
also claimed that he got the legend from a
Jewish source (Shell 1992:44-45).

145. Even China was often split and
fractured. Just about all the great empire-
building projects of the Middle Ages were
the work not of professional armies, but
of nomadic peoples: the Arabs, Mongols,
Tatars, and Turks.

146. Nicomachean Ethics 1133329-31.

147. He compares money not only to
a postman, but also, to a "ruler," who
also stands outside society to govern and
regulate our interactions. It's interesting
to note that Thomas Aquinas, who might
have been directly influenced by Ghazali
(Ghazanfar 2000), did accept Aristotle's
argument that money was a social con-
vention that humans could just as easily
change. For a while, in the late Middle
Ages, this became the predominant Cath-
olic view.

148. As far as I know, the only scholar
to have pointed out the connection is Ber-
nard Faure, a French student of Japanese
Buddhism: Faure 1998:798, 2000:225.

442

NOTES

149. Later still, as cash transactions be-
came more common, the term was applied
to small sums of cash offered as down-
payment, rather in the sense of English
"earnest money." On symbola in gen-
eral: Beauchet 1897; Jones 1956:217; Shell
1978:32-35.

150. Descat 1995:986.

151. Aristotle On Interepretation 1.16-
17. Whitalcer (2002:10) thus observes that
for Aristotle, "the meaning of a word is
fixed by convention, just as the impor-
tance attached to a tally, token, or ticket
depends on agreement between the parties
concerned."

152. Nicomachean Ethics 1133329-31.

153. But they believed that these for-
mulae summed up or "drew together"
the essence of those secret truths that the
Mysteries revealed — "symbolon," being
derived the verb symballein, meaning "to
gather, bring together, or compare."

154. Miiri 1931, Meyer 1999. The only
knowledge we have of such symbola
comes from Christian sources; Christians
later adopted their own symbolon, the
Creed, and this remained the primary ref-
erent of the term "symbol" throughout the
Middle Ages (Ladner 1979).

155. Or pseudo-Dionysius, since the
real Dionysius the Areopagite was a first-
century Athenian converted to Christian-
ity by St. Paul. Pseudo-Dionysius' works
are an attempt to reconcile neo-Platonism,
with its notion of philosophy as the process
of the liberation of the soul from material
creation and its reunification with the di-
vine, with Christian orthodoxy. Unfortu-
nately, his most relevant work, Symbolic
Theology, has been lost, but his surviving
works all bear on the issue to some degree.

156. In Barasch 1993:161.

157. Pseudo-Dionysius, On the Ce-
lestial Hierarchy 141A-C. On Dionysius'
theory of symbolism in general, and its
influence, see Barasch 1993:158-80, also
Goux 1990:67, Gadamer 2004:63-64.

158. He calls them, like communion,
"gifts that are granted to us in symbolic
mode." On the Celestial Hierarchy 124A.

159. Mathews 1934:283. Compare the
definition of symbolon:

A. tally, i.e. each of two halves
or corresponding pieces of a knuck-
lebone or other object, which two
guest friends, or any two contracting
parties, broke between them, each
party keeping one piece, in order to
have proof of the identity of the pre-
senter of the other.

B. of other devices having the
same purpose, e.g. a seal-impression
on wax,

1. any token serving as proof
of identity

2. guarantee

3. token, esp. of goodwill

After Liddell and Scott 1940:1676-77,
without the examples, and with the Greek
words for "knucklebone" and "guest-
friend" rendered into English.

160. Rotours 1952:6. On fu (or qi, an-
other name for debt tallies that could be
used more generally for "tokens") more
generally: Rotours 1952, Kaltenmark i960,
Kan 1978, Faure 2000:221-29: Falkenhau-
sen 2005.

161. There is a curious tension here:
the will of heaven is also in a certain sense
the will of the people, and Chinese think-
ers varied on where they placed the em-
phasis. Xunzi, for instance, assumed that
the authority of the king is based on the
confidence of the people. He also argued
that while confidence among the people
is maintained by contracts ensured by the
matching of tally sticks, under a truly just
king, social trust will be such that such
objects will become unnecessary (Roetz

199373-74)-

162. Kohn 2000:330. Similarly in Ja-
pan: Faure 2000:227.

163. In the Encyclopedia of Taoism
they are described as "diagrams, con-
ceived as a form of celestial writing, that
derive their power from the matching ce-
lestial counterpart kept by the deities who
bestowed them" (Bokenkamp 2008:35).

NOTES

443

On Taoist fu: Kaltenmark i960; Seidel
1983; Strickmann 2002:190 — 91; Verellen
2006; on Buddhist parallels, see Faure
1998; Robson 2008.

164. Sasso 1978; the origins of the yin-
yang symbol remain obscure and contest-
ed but those Sinologists I've consulted find
this plausible. The generic word for "sym-
bol" in contemporary Chinese is fuhao,
which is directly derived from fu.

165. Insofar as I'm weighing in on the
"Why didn't the Islamic world develop
modern capitalism?" debate, then, it
seems to me that both Udovitch's argu-
ment (1975:19-21) that the Islamic world
never developed impersonal credit mech-
anisms, and Ray's objection (1997:39-40)
that the ban on interest and insurance
was more important, carry weight. Ray's
suggestion that differences in inheritance
laws might play a role also deserves
investigation.

166. Maitland 1908:54.

167. Davis 1904.

168. In the Platonic sense: just as any
particular, physical bird we might happen
to see on a nearby fruit tree is merely a
token of the general idea of "bird" (which
is immaterial, abstract, angelic), so do the
various physical, mortal individuals who
join together to make up a corporation
become an abstract, angelic Idea. Kanto-
rowicz argues that it took a number of in-
tellectual innovations to make the notion
of the corporation possible: notably, the
idea of the aeon or aevum, eternal time,
that is, time that lasts forever, as opposed
to the Augustinian eternity which is out-
side of time entirely and was considered
the habitation of the angels, to the revival
of the works of Dionysius the Areopagite
(1957:280-81).

169. Kantorowicz 1957:282-83.

170. Islamic law, for instance, not only
did not develop the notion of fictive per-
sons, but steadfastly resisted recognizing
corporations until quite recently (Kuran
2005).

171. Mainly Randall Collins (1986:52-
58), who also makes the comparison with
China; cf. Coleman 1988.

172. See Nerlich 1987:121-24.

Chapter Eleven

L On English wages, see Dyer 1989;
on English festive life, there is a vast lit-
erature, but a good recent source is Hum-
phrey 2001. Silvia Federici (2004) provides
a compelling recent synthesis.

2. For a very small sampling of more
recent debates over the "price revolution,"
see Hamilton 1934, Cipolla 1967, Flynn
1982, Goldstone 1984, 1991, Fisher 1989,
Munro 2003a, 2007. The main argument
is between monetarists who continue to
argue that increase in the amount of spe-
cie is ultimately responsible for the infla-
tion, and those who emphasize the role
of rapid population increase, though most
specific arguments are considerably more
nuanced.

3. Historians speak of "bullion
famines" — as most active mines dried up,
such gold and silver that wasn't sucked
out of Europe to pay for eastern luxuries
was increasingly hidden away, causing all
sorts of difficulties for commerce. In the
1460s, the shortage of specie in cities like
Lisbon had been so acute that merchant
ships visiting with cargoes full of wares
often had to return home without selling
anything (Spufford 1988:339-62).

4. Brook 1998. Needless to say, I'm
simplifying enormously: another prob-
lem was the growth of landlordism, with
many smallholders falling in debt to land-
lords for inability to pay. As members of
the ever-increasing royal family and other
favored families gained tax exemptions
from the state, the tax burden on small-
holders became so heavy that many felt
forced to sell their lands to the powerful
families in exchange for tenancy agree-
ments to free those lands from taxes.

444

NOTES

5. Chinese historians count 77 differ-
ent "miners' revolts" during the 1430s
and '40s (Harrison 1965:103-4; cf. Tong
1992:60-64; Gernet 1982:414). Between
1445 and 1449 these became a serious
threat as silver miners under a rebel leader
named Ye Zongliu made common cause
with tenant farmers and the urban poor in
overpopulated Fujian and Shaxian, spark-
ing an uprising that spread to a number
of different provinces, seizing a number
of cities and expelling much of the landed
gentry.

6. Von Glahn (1996:70-82) docu-
ments the process. Gernet (1982:415-16)
documents how between 1450 and 1500,
most taxes became payable in silver. The
process culminated in the "single lash of
the whip" method: tax reforms put into
place between 1530 and 1581 (Huang
1974, see Arrighi, Hui, Hung and Seldon
2003:272-73).

7. Wong 1997, Pomeranz 2000, Arrighi
2007, among many others who make this
point.

8. Pomeranz 2000:273.

9. The value of silver in China (as
measured in gold) remained, through the
sixteenth century, roughly twice what it
was in Lisbon or Antwerp (Flynn & Giral-
dez 1995, 2002).

10. von Glahn 1996^440; Atwell 1998.

11. Chalis 1978:157.

12. China had its own "age of explora-
tion" in the early fifteenth century, but it
was not followed by mass conquest and
enslavement.

13. It's possible that they were wrong.
Generally populations did decline by 90
percent even in areas where no direct
genocide was taking place. But in most
places, after a generation or so, popula-
tions started recovering; in Hispaniola and
many parts of Mexico and Peru, around
the mines, the ultimate death rate was
more like 100 percent.

14. Todorov 1984:137-38; for the origi-
nal, Icazbalceta 2008:23-26.

15. One historian remarks: "By the
close of the sixteenth century bullion,

primarily silver, made up over 95 percent
of all exports leaving Spanish America for
Europe. Nearly that same percentage of
the indigenous population had been de-
stroyed in the process of seizing those
riches" (Stannard 1993:221).

16. Bernal Diaz 1963:43.

17. Bernal Diaz: the quote is a synthesis
of the Lockhart translation (1844 II:i2o)
and Cohen translation (1963:412), though
these appear to be based on slightly differ-
ent originals.

18. Bernal Diaz op cit.

19. Cortes 1868:141.

20. Most of the conquistadors had
similar stories. Balboa came to the Ameri-
cas to flee his creditors; Pizarro borrowed
so heavily to outfit his expedition to Peru
that after early reverses, it was only the
fear of debtor's prison that prevented his
return to Panama; Francisco de Montejo
had to pawn his entire Mexican posses-
sions for an eight-thousand-peso loan to
launch his expedition to Honduras; Pedro
de Alvarado too ended up deeply in debt,
finally throwing everything into a scheme
to conquer the Spice Islands and China —
on his death, creditors immediately tried
to put his remaining estates to auction.

21. e.g., Pagden 1986.

22. Gibson 1964:253. All this is disturb-
ingly reminiscent of global politics nowa-
days, in which the United Nations, for
example, will urge poor countries to make
education free and available to everyone,
and then the International Monetary Fund
(which is, legally, actually a part of the
United Nations) will insist that those same
countries do exactly the opposite, impos-
ing school fees as part of broader "eco-
nomic reforms" as a condition of refinanc-
ing the country's loans.

23. Following William Pietz (1985:8),
who studied early merchant adventurer's
accounts of West Africa; though Todorov
(1984:129-31) on the very similar perspec-
tive of the conquistadors.

24. Some did go bankrupt — for in-
stance, one branch of the Fuggers. But this
was surprisingly rare.

NOTES

445

25. Martin Luther, Von Kaufshand-
lung und Wucher, 1524, cited in Nelson
1949:50.

26. In Luther's time the main issue was
a practice called Zinskauf, technically rent
on leased property, which was basically a
disguised form of interest-bearing loan.

27. In Baker 1974:53-54. The reference
to Paul is in Romans 13:7.

28. He argued that the fact that Deu-
teronomy allows usury under any circum-
stances demonstrates that this could not
have been a universal "spiritual law," but
was a political law created for the specific
ancient Israeli situation, and therefore,
that it could be considered irrelevant in
different ones.

29. And in fact, this is what "capi-
tal" originally meant. The term itself
goes back to Latin capitate, which meant
"funds, stock of merchandise, sum of
money, or money carrying interest" (Brau-
del 1992:232). It appears in English in the
mid-sixteenth century largely as a term
borrowed from Italian bookkeeping tech-
niques (Cannan 1921, Richard 1926) for
what remained when one squared prop-
erty, credits, and debts; though until the
nineteenth century, English sources gener-
ally preferred the word "stock" — in part,
one suspects, because "capital" was so
closely associated with usury.

30. Nations that, after all, also prac-
ticed usury on one another: Nelson
1949:76.

31. Ben Nelson emphasized this in
an important book, The Idea of Usury:
From Tribal Brotherhood to Universal
Otherhood.

32. Midelfort 1996:39.

33. Zmora 2006:6-8. Public financ-
ing at this period largely meant disguised
interest-bearing loans from the minor no-
bility, who were also the stratum from
which local administrators were drawn.

34. On church lands: Dixon 2002:91.
On Casimir's gambling debts: Janssen
1910 IV:i47. His overall debt rose to half
a million guilders in 1528, and over three

quarters of a million by 1541 (Zmora
2oo6:i3n55.)

35. He was later accused of conspiring
with Count Wilhelm von Henneburg, who
had gone over to the rebels, to become
secular Duke of the territories then held
by the Bishop of Wurzburg.

36. From "Report of the Margrave's
Commander, Michel Gross from Trock-
au," in Scott & Scribner 1991:301. The
sums are based on a promise of 1 florin
per execution, Vi per mutilation. We do
not know if Casimir ever paid this par-
ticular debt.

37. For some relevant accounts of the
revolt and repression: Seebohm 1877:141-
45; Janssen 1910 IV323-26; Blickle 1977;
Endres 1979; Vice 1988; Robisheaux
1989:48-67, Sea 2007. Casimir is said to
have ultimately settled into exacting fines,
eventually demanding some 104,000 gul-
dens in compensation from his subjects.

38. Linebaugh (2008) makes a beauti-
ful analysis of this sort of phenomenon
in his essay on the social origins of the
Magna Carta.

39. It is telling that despite the end-
less reprisals against commoners, none of
the German princes or nobility, even those
who openly collaborated with the rebels,
was held accountable in any way.

40. Muldrew 1993a, 1993b, 1996, 1998,
2001; cf. Macintosh 1988; Zell 1996, Was-
wo 2004, Ingram 2006, Valenze 2006,
Kitch 2007. I find myself strongly agreeing
with most of Muldrew's conclusions, only
qualifying some: for instance, his rejection
of MacPherson's possessive individualism
argument (1962) strikes me as unneces-
sary, since I suspect that the latter does
identify changes that are happening on a
deeper structural level less accessible to
explicit discourse (see Graeber 1997).

41. Muldrew (2001:92) estimates that
in c. 1600, eight thousand London mer-
chants might have possessed as much as
one-third of all the cash in England.

42. Williamson 1889; Whiting 1971;
Mathias 1979b; Valenze 2006:34-40.

446

NOTES

43. Gold and silver were a very small
part of household wealth: inventories re-
veal on average fifteen shillings of credit
for every one in coin (Muldrew 1998).

44. This principle of a right to live-
lihood is key to what E.P. Thompson
famously called "moral economy of the
crowd" (1971) in eighteenth-century Eng-
land, a notion that Muldrew (1993a)
thinks can be applied to these credit sys-
tems as a whole.

45. Stout 1742:74-75, parts of the same
passage are cited in Muldrew 19933:178,
and 1998:152.

46. To be more precise, either piety (in
the Calvinist case) or good natured social-
ity (in the case of those that opposed them
in the name of older festive values) — in
the years before the civil war, many par-
ish governments were divided between the
"godly" and "good honest men" (Hunt
1983:146)

47. Shepherd 2000, Walker 1996; for
my own take on "life-cycle service" and
wage labor, see, again, Graeber 1997.

48. Hill 1972:39-56, Wrightson &
Levine 1979, Beier 1985.

49. Muldrew 2001:84.

50. For a classic statement on the con-
nection of Tudor markets, festivals, and
morality, see Agnew (1986).

51. Johnson 2004:56-58. On the two
conceptions of justice: Wrightson 1980.
Bodin's essay was widely read. It drew on
Aquinas' view of love and friendship as
prior to the legal order, which, in turn,
harkens back to Aristotle's Nicomachean
Ethics, which reached Europe through
Arab sources. Whether there was also a
direct influence from the Islamic sources
themselves we do not know, but consider-
ing the degree of general mutual engage-
ment (Ghazanfar 2003) it seems likely.

52. Gerard de Malynes's Maintenance
of Free Trade (1622), cited in Muldrew
1998:98, also Muldrew 2001:83.

53. Chaucer is full of this sort of thing:
the Wife of Bath has much to say about
conjugal debts (e.g., Cotter 1969). It was
really in the period of about 1400-1600

that everything came to be so framed as
debt, presumably reflecting the first stir-
rings of possessive individualism, and at-
tempts to reconcile it to older moral para-
digms. Guth (2008), a legal historian, thus
calls these centuries "the age of debt," one
which was then replaced after 1600 by an
"age of contract."

54. Davenant 1771:152.

55. Marshall Sahlins (1996, 2008) has
been emphasizing the theological roots of
Hobbes for some time. Much of the fol-
lowing analysis draws on his influence.

56. Hobbes himself doesn't use the
term "self-interest" but does speak of
"particular," "private," and "common"
interests.

57. De L'Esprit 53, cited in Hirschman
1986:45. Exploring the contrast between
Shang's "profit" and Helvetius' "interest"
would be a telling history in itself. They
are not the same concept.

58. "Interest" (from interesse) comes
into common usage as a euphemism for
usury in the fourteenth century, but it only
comes to be used in its more familiar, gen-
eral sense in the sixteenth. Hobbes doesn't
use "self-interest," though he speaks of
"private" and "common" interests; but
that term was already current, having ap-
peared in the work of Machiavelli's friend
Francesco Guicciadini in 1512. It becomes
commonplace in the eighteenth century
(see Hirschman 1977, 1992, especially
chapter 2, "on the concept of interest";
Dumont 1981; Myers 1983, Heilbron 1998).

59. See (1928:187) notes that until
around 1800, "interesse" was the common
word for "capital" in French; in English
the preferred word was "stock." It is cu-
rious to note that Adam Smith, for one,
actually returns to the Augustinian usage,
"self-love," in his famous passage about
the butcher and the baker {Wealth of Na-
tions 1.2.2).

60. Beier 1985:159-63; cf. Dobb
1946:234. Consorting with gypsies was
also a capital crime. In the case of va-
grancy, justices found it so difficult to find
anyone willing to press charges against

NOTES

447

vagrants that they were eventually forced
to reduce the penalty to public whipping.

61. In Walker 1996:244.

62. Helmholtz 1986, Brand 2002, Guth
2008.

63. Helmholz 1986, Muldrew 1998:255,
Schofield Sc Mayhew 2002, Guth 2008).

64. Stout 1742:121.

65. "The horrors of the Fleet and Mar-
shalsea were laid bare in 1729. The poor
debtors were found crowded together on
the 'common side,' — covered with filth
and vermin, and suffered to die, without
pity, of hunger and jail fever . . . No at-
tempt was made to distinguish the fraud-
ulent from the unfortunate debtor. The
rich rogue — able, but unwilling to pay
his debts — might riot in luxury and de-
bauchery, while his poor unlucky fellow-
prisoner was left to starve and rot on the
'common side'" (Hallam 1866 V:269~70.)

66. I do not want to argue that the
more familiar narrative of "primitive ac-
cumulation," of the enclosure of common
lands and rise of private property, the dis-
location of thousands of one-time cottag-
ers who became landless laborers, is false.
I simply highlight a less familiar side of
the story. It's especially helpful to high-
light it because the degree to which the
Tudor and Stuart periods were actually
marked by a rise of enclosures is a heated
matter of debate (e.g., Wordie 1983). The
use of debt to split communities against
themselves is meant in the same vein as
Silvia Federici's (2004) brilliant argument
about the role of witchcraft accusations in
reversing popular gains of the late Middle
Ages and opening the way to capitalism.

67. "Personal credit received a bad
press in the eighteenth century. It was
frequently said that it was wrong to go
into debt simply to pay for everyday con-
sumption goods. A cash economy was
celebrated and the virtues of prudent
housekeeping and parsimony extolled.
Consequently retail credit, pawnbroking,
and moneylending were all attacked, with
both borrowers and lenders the targets"
(Hoppit 1990:312-13.)

68. Wealth of Nations 1.2.2.

69. Muldrew makes this point:
1993:163.

70. Theory of Moral Sentiments 4.1.10.

71. "The man who borrows in order
to spend will soon be ruined, and he who
lends to him will generally have occasion
to repent of his folly. To borrow or to
lend for such a purpose, therefore, is in
all cases, where gross usury is out of the
question, contrary to the interest of both
parties; and though it no doubt happens
sometimes that people do both the one
and the other; yet, from the regard that
all men have for their own interest, we
may be assured that it cannot happen so
very frequently as we are sometimes apt
to imagine" (Wealth of Nations 2.4.2). He
does occasionally acknowledge the exis-
tence of retail credit, but he grants it no
significance.

72. Reeves 1999. Reeves, like Servet
(1994, 2001) shows that many were aware
of the variability of money-stuffs: Puffen-
dorf, for example, made a long list of
them.

73. When we attribute value to gold,
then, we simply recognize this. The same
argument was usually invoked to solve the
old Medieval puzzle about diamonds and
water: Why is it that diamonds are so ex-
pensive, though useless, and water, which
is useful in all sorts of ways, hardly worth
anything at all? The usual solution was:
diamonds are the eternal form of water.
(Galileo, who objected to the entire prem-
ise, at one point suggested that those who
make such claims should really be turned
into statues. That way, he suggested, in
inimitable Renaissance style, everyone
would be happy, since (1) they would be
eternal, and (2) the rest of us would no
longer have to listen to their stupid argu-
ments.) See Wennerlind 2003, who notes,
interestingly, that most European govern-
ments employed alchemists in the seven-
teenth century in order to manufacture
gold and silver for coins; it's only when
these schemes definitively failed that the
governments moved to paper currency.

448

NOTES

74. Kindleberger 1984; Boyer-Xambeu,
Deleplace, & Gillard 1994; Ingham
2004:171. Rather, this path eventually led
to the creation of stock markets: the first
public bourses, in fifteenth-century Bruges
and Antwerp, began not by trading shares
in joint-stock ventures, which barely exist-
ed at the time, but by "discounting" bills
of exchange.

75. Usher (1934, 1944) originally intro-
duced the distinction between "primitive
banking," where one simply lends out
what one has, and "modern banking,"
based on some sort of fractional reserve
system — that is, one lends more than
one has, thus effectively creating money.
This would be another reason why we
have now moved to something other than
"modern banking" — see below.

76. Spufford 1988:258, drawing on
Usher 1943:239-42. While deposit notes
were used, private bank notes, based on
credit, only appear quite late — from Lon-
don goldsmiths, who also acted as bank-
ers, in the seventeenth and eighteenth
centuries.

77. See Munro 2003b for a useful
summary.

78. MacDonald 2006:156.

79. Tomas de Mercado in Flynn
1978:400.

80. See Flynn 1979; Braudel 1992:522-
23; Stein 8c Stein 2000: 501-05, 960-62;
Tortella & Comin 2002. The number of
juros in circulation went from 3.6 million
ducats in 1516 to 80.4 million in 1598.

81. The most famous exponent of this
position was Nicholas Barbon (1690), who
argued that "money is a value made by
law" and a measure in just the same man-
ner as inches or hours or fluid ounces. He
also emphasized that most money was
credit anyway.

82. Locke (1691:144) also cited in
Caffentzis 1989:46-47, which remains the
most insightful summary of the debate
and its implications. Compare Perlman &
McCann 1998:117-20; Letwin 2003:71-78;
Valenze 2006:40-43.

83. We tend to forget that the ma-
terialism of the Marxist tradition is not
some radical departure — Marx was, like
Nietzsche, taking bourgeois assumptions
(though in his case, different ones) and
pushing them in directions that would
outrage their original proponents. Any-
way, there is good reason to believe that
what we now call "historical materialism"
is really Engels' addition to the project —
Engels being himself nothing if not bour-
geois in background and sensibilities
(he was a stalwart of the Cologne stock
exchange) .

84. Macaulay 1886:485 — the original
essay was published in the Spectator,
March 1, 1711.

85. Faust II, Act 1 — see Shell 1992,
Binswanger 1994 for a detailed analysis.
The connection with alchemy is revealing.
When in 1300 Marco Polo had remarked
that the Chinese emperor "seemed to have
mastered the art of alchemy" in his abil-
ity to turn mere paper into something as
good as gold, this was clearly meant as a
joke; by the seventeenth century most Eu-
ropean monarchs actually did employ al-
chemists to try to produce gold from base
metals; it was only their failure that led to
the adoption of paper money (Wennerlend
2003).

86. It's not as if suspicions about mon-
ey didn't exist — but they tended to focus,
instead, on moral and metaphysical issues
(e.g., "the theft of time").

87. Said to have been given at a talk
at the University of Texas in 1927, but in
fact, while the passage is endlessly cited in
recent books and especially on the inter-
net, it cannot be attested to before roughly
1975. The first two lines appear to actually
derive from a British investment advisor
named L.L.B. Angas in 1937: "The mod-
ern Banking system manufactures money
out of nothing. The process is perhaps
the most astounding piece of sleight of
hand that was ever invented. Banks can in
fact inflate, mint and unmint the modern
ledger-entry currency" (Angas 1937:20-21).
The other parts of the quote are probably

NOTES

449

later inventions — and Lord Stamp never
suggested anything like this in his pub-
lished writings. A similar line, "the bank
hath benefit of all interest which it creates
out of nothing" attributed to William Pat-
terson, the first director of the Bank of
England, is likewise first attested to only
in the 1930s, and is also almost certainly
apocryphal.

88. Joint-stock corporations were
created in the beginning of the colonial
period, with the famous East India Com-
pany and related colonial enterprises, but
they largely vanished during the period of
the industrial revolution and were mainly
revived only at the end of the nineteenth
century, and then principally, at first, in
America and Germany. As Giovanni Ar-
righi (1994) has pointed out, the heyday
of British capitalism was marked by small
family firms and high finance; it was
America and Germany, who spent the
first half of the twentieth century battling
over who would replace Great Britain as
hegemon, that introduced modern bureau-
cratic corporate capitalism.

89. MacKay 1854:52.

90. MacKay 1854:53-54.

91. Spyer 1997.

92. Prakash 2003:209-16.

93. Hardenburg &C Casement 1913; the
story has been analyzed most famously,
and insightfully, by Mick Taussig (1984,
1987).

94. Encyclopedia Britannica, n'h edi-
tion (1911): entry for "Putumayo."

95. As Taussig notes (1984:482), when
the head of the company was later asked
what he actually meant by "cannibal" he
said, simply, that it meant the Indians re-
fused to trade with anybody else.

96. This is a point demonstrated in
great detail in an important book by
Yann Moulier-Boutang (1997), which un-
fortunately has never been translated into
English.

97. Davies 1975:59- "Indentured"
comes from the "indentations" or notches
on a tally again, since these were widely
used as contracts for those who, like most

indentured servants, couldn't read (Black-
stone 1827 I:2i8).

98. Immanuel Wallerstein (1974) pro-
vides the classic analysis of this "second
serfdom.

99. This was true, incidentally, across
the class spectrum: everyone was expect-
ed to do this, from lowly milkmaids and
apprentices to "ladies in waiting" and
knight's pages. This was one reason, inci-
dentally, why indentured-service contracts
did not seem like much of a jump in the
seventeenth century: they were simply
lengthening the term of contracted em-
ployment from one to five or seven years.
Even in Medieval times there were also
adult day-laborers, but these were often
considered indistinguishable from simple
criminals.

100. The very word "proletariat" in
a way alludes to this, as it's taken from
a Roman term for "those who have
children."

101. C.L.R. James 1938; Eric Williams
1944.

102. "Many devices were available by
which businessmen economized in the
use of cash in wage payments — payment
could be made only at long intervals; pay-
ment might consist in giving claims on
others (truck payment, tickets or vouch-
ers to authorize purchasing from shops,
etc., the provision of private notes and
tokens)" — Mathias 19793:95.

103. Actually the full list is: "cabbage,
chips, waxers, sweepings, sockings, wast-
ages, blessing, lays, dead men, onces, pri-
mage, furthing, dunnage, portage, wines,
vails, tinge, buggings, colting, rumps,
birrs, fents, thrums, potching, scrapings,
poake, coltage, extra, tret, tare, largess,
the con, nobbings, knockdown, boot,
tommy, trimmings, poll, gleanings, lops,
tops, bontages, keepy back, pin money"
(Linebaugh 1993:449; see also Linebaugh
1982, Rule 1986:115-17).

104. Tebbutt 1983:49. On pawnbro-
king in general: Hardaker 1892, Hudson
1982, Caskey 1994, Fitzpatrick 2001.

105. Linebaugh 1993: 371-404.

450

NOTES

106. Usually in order to conclude that
today, of course, we are living in an en-
tirely different world, because clearly
that's not true any more. It might help
here to remind the reader that Marx saw
himself as writing a "critique of political
economy" — that is, of theory and practice
of economics of his day.

107. See the Lockhart translation of
Bernal Diaz (Diaz 1844 11:396), which
gives several versions of the story, drawn
from different sources.

108. Clenninden 1991:144.

109. It is on these grounds that Testart
distinguishes slavery owing to gambling,
where the gambler stakes his own person,
and debt slavery, even if these are ulti-
mately gambling debts. "The mentality of
the gambler who directly stakes his person
in the game is closer to that of the war-
rior, who risks losing his life in war or
being taken into slavery, than to that of
the poor person willing to sell himself to
survive" (Testart 2002:180).

no. This is incidentally why com-
plaints about the immorality of deficits are
so profoundly disingenuous: since modern
money effectively is government debt, if
there was no deficit, the results would
be disastrous. True, money can also be
generated privately, by banks, but there
would appear to be limits to this. This
is why U.S. financial elites, led by Alan
Greenspan, panicked in the late 1990s
when the Clinton administration began to
run budget surpluses; the Bush tax cuts
appear to have been designed specifically
to ensure that the deficit was maintained.

in. Wallerstein 1989.

112. 1988:600.

113. Britain passed its first bankruptcy
law in 1542.

114. This is no doubt what Goethe was
getting at when he had Faust, specifically,
tell the emperor to pay his debts with
IOUs. After all, we all know what hap-
pened to him when his time came due.

115. Sonenscher (2007) gives a long and
detailed history of these debates.

116. One might trace a religious ele-
ment here: in the time of Augustus, a

group of religious cultists in the Middle
East conceived the idea that fire was about
to come from the sky and consume the
planet. Nothing seemed less likely at the
time. Leave them in charge of a corner of
the world for two thousand years, they
figure out a way to do it. But still, this is
clearly part of a larger pattern.

Chapter Twelve

1. I was first put on to the signifi-
cance of the date by fellow anthropologist
Chris Gregory (1998: 265-96; also Hudson
2003a). U.S. citizens had not been able to
cash in dollars for gold since 1934. The
analysis that follows is inspired by both
Gregory and Hudson.

2. One plausible-sounding version,
which cites rather small amounts of bul-
lion, can be found at: www.rediff.com/
money/2ooi/nov/i7Wtc.htm. For a more
entertaining, fictional version: www.rense
.com/general73/confess.htm.

3. "The Federal Reserve Bank of New
York: the Key to the Gold Vault" (new
yorkfed.org/education/addpub/goldvaul
.pdf).

4. As a minor aside, I remember from
the time also reading news reports not-
ing that there were, in fact, a number of
expensive jewelry shops in the arcades
directly beneath the Towers, and that all
the gold in them did in fact disappear.
Presumably they were pocketed by res-
cue workers, but considering the circum-
stances, it would seem there were no seri-
ous objections — at least, I've never heard
anything about the matter being further
investigated, let alone prosecuted.

5. It's no coincidence, certainly, that
William Greider decided to name his great
history of the Federal Reserve (1989) The
Secrets of the Temple. This is actually
how many of its own officials privately
describe it. He quotes one: "The System
is just like the Church . . . It's got a pope,
the chairman; and a college of cardinals,
the governors and bank presidents; and

NOTES

451

a curia, the senior staff. The equivalent
of the laity is the commercial banks . . .
We even have different orders of religious
thought like Jesuits and Franciscans and
Dominicans only we call them pragma-
tists and monetarists and neo-Keynesians"
(ibid:54).

6. This is hardly a new claim, and it
rests in part on the Braudelian (world-
systems) school, for instance, the recent
work of Mielants (2007). For a more clas-
sically Marxist version developing the
connection since Nixon's time, see Custers
2007. For a more mainstream neoclassical
treatments of the connection, see Mac-
Donald & Gastman 2001, MacDonald
2006.

7. Senator Fullbright, in McDermott
2008:190.

8. I note that this flies directly in the
face of the intent of the United States
Constitution (1.8.5), which specifies that
only Congress was relegated the power
"to coin money, [and] regulate the value
thereof" — no doubt at the behest of the
Jeffersonians, who were opposed to cre-
ating a central bank. The United States
still observes the letter of the law: Unit-
ed States coins are issued directly by the
Treasury. United States paper money,
while signed by the head of the Treasury,
is not issued by the Treasury but by the
Federal Reserve. They are technically
banknotes, though as with the Bank of
England, one bank is granted a monopoly
in issuing them.

9. For those who don't know how the
Fed works: technically, there are a series
of stages. Generally the Treasury puts out
bonds to the public, and the Fed buys them
back. The Fed then loans the money thus
created to other banks at a special low
rate of interest ("the prime rate"), so that
those banks can then lend at higher ones.
In its capacity as regulator of the banking
system, the Fed also establishes the frac-
tional reserve rate: just how many dol-
lars these banks can "lend" — effectively,
create — for every dollar they borrow from
the Fed, or have on deposit, or can other-
wise count as assets. Technically this is 10

to 1, but a variety of legal loopholes allow
banks to go considerably higher.

10. Which does raise the rather inter-
esting question of what its gold reserves
are actually for.

11. Indeed, perhaps the greatest com-
promise to United States global power in
recent years is the fact that there is now
one place — the region of China facing
Taiwan — where air defenses are now so
dense and sophisticated that the United
States Air Force is no longer certain that
it can penetrate at will. The inability to
blow up Osama bin Laden is, of course,
the most dramatic limit to this power.

12. Or, to put the money in the Unit-
ed States stock market, which ultimately
has a similar effect. As Hudson notes,
"American diplomats have made it clear
that to buy control of U.S. companies or
even to return to gold would be viewed
as an unfriendly act" (20023:7), so> unless
they want to move out of dollars entirely,
which would be considered an even more
unfriendly act, there is little alternative.
As to how "unfriendly" acts might be re-
ceived: see below.

13. Hudson 2oo2a:i2.

14. As many have remarked, the three
countries that switched to the euro around
this time — Iraq, Iran, and North Korea —
were precisely those singled out by Bush
as his "Axis of Evil." Of course we can
argue about cause and effect here. It's also
significant that the core euro-using states
such as France and Germany uniformly
opposed the war, while U.S. allies were
drawn from euro-skeptics like the UK.

15. For a few representative takes on
the relation of the dollar and empire:
from a neoclassical economic perspec-
tive, Ferguson (2001, 2004), from a radical
Keynesian perspective, Hudson (2003a),
from a Marxist one, Brenner (2002).

16. Even the CIA now ordinarily refers
to such arrangements as "slavery," though
technically debt peonage is different.

17. Compare this to the deficit/military
chart above, on page 366 — the curve is ef-
fectively identical.

452

NOTES

18. See dailybail.com/home/china-
warns-us-about-debt-monetization.html,
accessed December 22, 2009. The story
is based on a piece from the Wall Street
Journal, "Don't Monetize the Debt: The
president of the Dallas Fed on inflation
risk and central bank independence"
(Mary Anastasia O'Grady, WSJ, May 23,
2009.) I should add that in popular us-
age nowadays, "to monetize the debt" is
generally used as a synonym for "print-
ing money" to pay debt. This usage has
become almost universal, but it's not the
original sense of the term, which is to
turn the debt itself into money. The Bank
of England did not print money to pay
the national debt; it turned the national
debt itself into money. Here too there is
a profound argument going on about the
nature of money itself.

19. The arrangement is sometimes re-
ferred to as Bretton Woods II (Dooley,
Folkerts-Landau fic Garber 2004, 2009):
effectively, an agreement since the 1990s
at least to use various unofficial means to
keep the dollar's value artificially high,
and East Asian currencies — particularly
the Chinese — artificially low, in order to
expedite cheap Asian exports to the Unit-
ed States. Since real wages in the United
States have either stagnated or retreated
continually since the 1970s, this, and the
accumulation of consumer debt, is the
only reason living standards in the United
States have not precipitously declined.

20. On Zheng He, see Dreyer 2006,
Wade 2004, Wake 1997. On the tribute
trade in general: Moses 1967, Yti 1967,
Hamashita 1994, 2003; Di Cosmo &C Wy-
att 2005.

21. The argument here follows Arrighi,
Hui, Hung and Selden 2003, some ele-
ments of which were echoed in Arrighi's
last work, Adam Smith in Beijing (2007).

22. Japan of course was something
of an exception, since it had arguably
achieved something like First World status
even before this.

23. Keynes 1936:345-

24. See www.irle.berkeley.edu/events/
springo8/feller/

25. The key legislation was the "De-
pository Institutions Deregulation and
Monetary Control Act" of 1980, which
struck down all federal usury laws: osten-
sibly, in reaction to the rampant inflation
of the late 1970s, though of course they
were never restored when inflation was
brought back under control, as it has in
the last quarter-century. It left state in-
terest ceilings in place, but institutions
like credit-card companies were allowed
to observe the laws of the state in which
they are registered, no matter where they
operated. This is why most are registered
in South Dakota, which has no maximum
interest rate.

26. The first is from Thomas Friedman
(1999) in a cocky and vacuous book called
The Lexus and the Olive Tree, the second
from Randy Martin (2002) in a book of
the same name.

27. In America this "universal other-
ness" is accomplished above all through
racism. This is why most small retailing
in the United States is conducted on ethnic
lines: say, Korean grocers or dry-cleaners,
who pool credit with one another, whose
clients, however, are sufficiently socially
distant that there is no question of extend-
ing credit outside, or even expecting basic
relations of trust — since they themselves
ordinarily expect electricians, locksmiths,
contractors of various sorts who provide
services to at least attempt to shaft them!
Essentially the market across racial or eth-
nic lines becomes one where everyone is
assumed to be Amalek.

28. Gilder 1981:266, cited in Cooper
2008:7. Cooper's essay is a brilliant ex-
ploration of the relation between debt
imperialism — a phrase she seems to have
coined, inspired by Hudson — and evangel-
ical Christianity, and it is heartily recom-
mended. See also Nay lor 1985.

29. Robertson 1992:153. In Cooper
again: op cit.

30. Atwood 2008:42.

NOTES

453

31. This is, incidentally, also the best
response to conventional critiques of the
poor as falling into debt because they are
unable to delay gratification — another
way in which economic logic, with all its
human blind spots, skews any possible un-
derstanding of "consumers'" actual moti-
vations. Rationally, since CDs yield around
4 percent annually, and credit cards charge
20 percent, consumers should save as a
cushion and only go into debt when they
absolutely have to, postponing unnecessary
purchases until there's a surplus. Very few
act this way, but this is rarely because of
improvidence (can't wait to get that flashy
new dress) but because human relations
can't actually be put off in the same way
as imaginary "consumer purchases": one's
daughter will only be five once, and one's
grandfather has only so many years left.

32. There are so many books on the
subject that one hesitates to cite, but a
couple of outstanding examples are Anya
Kamentz's Generation Debt (2006), and
Brett William's Social History of the
Credit Trap (2004). The larger point
about demands for debt as a form of class
struggle is in large part inspired by the
Midnight Notes collective, who argue
that, however paradoxically, "neoliberal-
ism has thrown open a new dimension of
struggle between capital and the work-
ing class within the domain of credit"
(2009:7). I have followed this analysis to
a degree, but tried to move away from
the economistic framing of human life as
"reproduction of labor" that hobbles so
much Marxist literature — the emphasis
on life beyond survival might be distantly
Vaneigem-influenced (1967), but largely
falls back on my own work on value the-
ory (Graeber 2001).

33. Elyachar 2002:510.

34. See for instance, "India's micro-
finance suicide epidemic," Soutik Biswas,
BBC News South Asia, 16 December 2010,
http.bbc.co.uk/news/world-south-asia
-11997571

35. I have observed this first hand on
any number of occasions in my work as

an activist: police are happy to effectively
shut down trade summits, for example,
just to ensure that there's no possible
chance that protestors can feel they have
succeeded in doing so themselves.

36. In practice, it mainly consists of
"interest-free" banking arrangements that
pay lip service to the notion of profit-
sharing but in reality operate in much
the same way as any other bank. The
problem is that if profit-sharing banks are
competing with more conventional ones
in the same marketplace, those who antic-
ipate that their enterprises will yield high
profits will gravitate toward the ones of-
fering fixed-interest loans, and only those
who anticipate lower profits will turn to
the profit-sharing option (Kuran 1995:162).
For a transition to no-interest banking to
work, it would have to be total.

37. Under the Caliphate, to guarantee
the money supply; in China, through sys-
tematic intervention to stabilize markets
and prevent capitalistic monopolies; lat-
er, in the United States and other North
Atlantic republics, through allowing the
monetization of its own debt.

38. True, as I showed in chapter 5,
economic life will always be a matter of
clashing principles, and thus might be said
to be incoherent to a certain extent. Actu-
ally I don't think this is in any way a bad
thing — at the very least, it's endlessly pro-
ductive. The distortions born of violence
strike me as uniquely insidious.

39. von Mises 1949:540-41. The origi-
nal German text was published in 1940
and presumably composed a year or two
previous.

40. Ferguson 2oo7:iv.

41. I can speak with some authority
here since I was myself born of humble
origins and have advanced myself in life
almost exclusively through my own in-
cessant labors. I am well known by my
friends to be a workaholic — to their of-
ten justifiable annoyance. I am therefore
keenly aware that such behavior is at best
slightly pathological, and certainly in no
sense makes one a better person.

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INDEX

Abbasid Caliphate, 169, 272-275, 303
abolitionism, 166-167
absolute power

in property rights, 198-201, 421n92,
421n96

of state and monarchs, 205-207, 325,

331, 385
(abuse/destruction), 199
Abyssinia, 26

"Accounting for the Grail" (Shell),

441nnl43-144
Achilles, 189, 209, 418n66, 418n70
Act of Settlement of 1701, 243
adal-badal (give and take), 33-34
Addison, Joseph, 242, 368
adultery

biblical view of, 129, 409n8

in Lele culture, 138
advantage, concept of, 239
Aeschines, 418^tl9n73
"affair of honor," 177, 415n30
Africa

barter systems in, 24, 394n7

cloth money in, 129

colonialism in, 350

currency in, 150, 152, 411n53,
411nn53-54

Islam in, 272, 273

Kabyle Berber men (Algeria), 106

negative image of, 156

reciprocity, examples of in, 92-94

slave trade in, 148-155

See also Lele people; slavery; Tiv
people
African slavery laws, 169
Against Timarchus (Aeschines), 418-

419n73
Agamemnon, 189

age of debt, 446n53
age of exploration, 308, 444nl2
Age of Revolutions, 345
Aglietta, Michel, 55, 56, 398n30
Agni (god), 56

ahimsa, principles of, 234, 255

AIG (American International Group,

Inc.), 17, 393nll
Akiga, Sai, 132, 161-162, 410n42, 411n51,

412n77
Akkadian language, 178
Akunakuna people, 412n65
alchemy, 336, 343, 448n85
Alexander the Great, 219, 227, 229-230,

233, 427n22, 428n39, 432nl0
Algeria

Kabyle Berber men in, 106, 277,
437n76

national liberation movements in, 374
al-Sadr, Muhammud Baqir, 384
"alternating reciprocity," 405n21
"alternative tradition," 54, 55
Althabe, Gerard, 51
Alvarado, Pedro de, 356, 444n20
al-Wahid, Ali ibn &grave;Abd, 168-169,

274, 414nn3-8, 421nl03
amargi (freedom), 65, 216
Amazonia, burial customs in, 99, 405nl8
Ambrose, Saint, 282, 284-285, 286, 287
American dream, ideals of, 374-375, 381
American Express, 367
Americas, European conquest of, 314—

318, 350
Amorite language, 178
Amos, 73

Anaximander/Anaximenes, 230n73, 245
ancient Greece. See Greece
ancient Rome. See Rome
Angas, L.L.B., 448n87

494

INDEX

Annikeris, 197, 421n90
Antony, Marc, 418^19n73
Aceoka, Emperor, 249, 252-253
apeiron (the unlimited), 245
"apostolic poverty," 290
"appreciate," etymology of, 408n63
apreitiare (to set. a price), 408n63
Aquinas, Thomas, 251, 286, 299, 304,

407n60, 438n92, 441nl47, 446n51
Aquitaine, Eleanor of, 294
Arabic terminology

ruq'a (notes), 275

sakk (checks), 275

sharika al-mafalis (partnership of the
penniless), 276
Aramaic language, 178
Aramaic terminology, hoyween (debt),

403n25
Argentina

collapse of economy in, 37
default on international debt, 369
aristocracy

indebtedness of, 231, 427n28
superiority, notions of, 112-113, 406-
407n44
Aristotle

Baghdad Aristoteleans, 271
on barter systems, 394n6
Constitution of the Athenians, 187,
417n58

Constitution of the Megarians, 419n75

on Greek state, 427nl7

On Interpretation, 442nl51

on moneylending, 440nl23

Nicomachean Ethics, 431n78, 438n92,
440nl23, 441nl47, 442n 153,
446n51

on origins of money, 24

Politics, 24, 394n6, 418n60, 420n81,
422nll2, 427nl7, 440nl23
Aro Confederacy, 152, 163, 412nn65-67
Arrighi, Giovanni, 49n88, 445n21
Arthasasatra (Kautilya), 50, 233-234, 240,

432nl5
Arthur, King, 293, 441nl37
Aru Islands, 347, 349
Ascent of Money (Ferguson), 389
Asoka, Emporer, 234-235, 249, 252-253
Assyrian law codes, 417n53

on prostitution, 184

Astronomy (Smith), 396n3

Athens. See Greece

Atlantic, The, 393nll

Atlantic Slave Trade. See slave trade

Atwood, Margaret, 92, 378, 404n5

Augustine, Saint, 332, 446n59

Augustinian traditions, 332, 430n69,

443nl68, 446n59
Augustin the Executioner, 325
Augustus, 287, 418-419n73, 450nll6
Aurelius, Marcus, 243
Australia

Gunwinggu people, 30-33, 35, 127,
415n31

Maori people, 108, 116
Axial Age

in China, 235-237

coins, origins of, 225-226

in Egypt, 226

in Greece, 228-232

in India, 232-235

materialism, pursuit of profits and,
237-242

merceneries as currency, 226, 426nll

overview, 223-228

religious thought in, 223-226

rise of coinage in, 214

warfare during, 230-231
"Axis of Evil," 451nl4
Aztec people

European conquest of, 314-315, 317,
325-326, 355-357

games of, 356

Moctezuma, 355-357

Babylonia. See Mesopotamia

Baghdad Aristoteleans, 271

bailouts, financial

for corporations, 16-17, 381, 393nll
mortgage relief funds, 394nl3 (Chap.
1)

threat to democracy and, 17, 394nl3
(Chap. 1)
Bakenranef, Pharaoh, 219, 403n29
Balboa, Vasco Nunez de, 444n20
Bali, slave trade in, 156-158, 158, 163,

413n88
Banaji, 427n31

Bangladesh, microcredit in, 379-380

INDEX

495

Bank of England

creation of, 339-340, 372, 449n87,
451n8

debt monetization and, 452nl8
growth of, 342

loans and, 344, 365, 449-450n87
money, printing of, 339, 452nl8
money theories and, 45, 49, 397nl6
politics and, 342-343

Banking Law Journal, 40

banknotes. See paper money

bankruptcy

causes of, 379
in France, 359

national bankruptcy, 359, 450nll4
bankruptcy laws

in England, 359, 393nl2, 450nll3
in U.S., 16, 379, 381, 393-394nnl2-13,
394nl3 (Chap. 1)
bankruptcy reform, 16, 393-394nnl2-13
banks/banking systems

conspiracy theories about, 363-364
financial crisis of 2008 and, 15-17,

372, 393nll
global monetary systems, 368-369
"go-go banking," 2
in Greece, 227, 426nl2
Islamic law on, 275-280,

436-437nn68-74
in Italy, 291-292, 440nl32
in medieval Europe, 291-292,
440nl32

modern banking systems, 448n87
"primitive banking," 448n75
private bank notes, 338, 448n75,

449nl02
"proto-banks," 435n54
proverbs about, 1
See also central banks; Federal Re-
serve Bank
Banque Royal (France), 342
barbarian coins, 252, 431nl
"Barbarian Law Codes," 60, 77, 128, 172,
252

Barbarossa, Frederick, 441nnl43

Barbon, Nicholas, 448n81

Bardi, 291

bargaining customs

bazaars, haggling in, 102-104
in Islam, 279-280, 329, 438n88

in Java, 102

in Madagascar, 104
bar tabs, 18, 38, 40, 47, 85, 269, 327
barter, myth of

continued belief in, 43-45, 396nl

dispelling, 33^1, 36-38, 395n24

overview, 52-62

role in society, 386

Smith on Utopian barter economy,
22-24, 34-36, 46, 374, 383-384,
385

barter systems

Aristotle on, 24, 394n6

division of labor and, 25-26

"double coincidence of wants," 22-23,

34, 36

economists' views of, 22-28, 28, 36-

38, 395n24
exchange, mental function and, 25-26,

394n9

hospitality values and, 29-34
labor, division of and, 25-26
negative views about, 291
origins of money and, 21, 29, 394nl4,

394nnl4-16
overview, 22-24, 32-33
sociality in, 29-33
violence and, 32, 395n21
vs. using money, 22-24, 44-45, 396n6
women's role in, 29-30, 394nl5,

395nnl5
barter systems, types of

adal-badal (give and take), 33-34
in Africa, 24, 35, 394n7
in the Americas, 24, 394n7
ceremonial barter, 30-33, 35, 127,

395nl8, 395n21, 415n31
gift economies, 36, 90, 108
Gunwinggu people, 30-33, 35, 127,

415n31

Inuit people, 114-116, 407n46

in Islam, 279-281, 438n88

Kalahari Bushmen, 35

Kwakiutl potlatches, 396nl

in Madagascar, 28

Nambikwara people, 29-30, 32-33,

35, 127, 410n22

Native American systems of exchange,

25, 394nl0
in Oceania, 394n7

496

INDEX

barter systems, types of (continued)

"primitive barter," 394n7

Pukhtun people, 33-34, 37

"spot trades," 395n24

swapping objects, 29, 37, 44, 85,
395nl6

trucking, 25, 28, 394n7

United States, 24, 394n7

in West Indies, 24
"baseline communism," 97-99, 101, 104
Bataille, Georges, 402n8
Battle of Edessa, 189
Battuta, Ibn, 107, 411n53
Baum, L. Frank, 52-53, 398nn22-24
bazaars, Middle Eastern

bargaining in, 103-104

Islamic society and, 278-279
bead money, 60, 336
Bedouins, 136
Begg, David, 23
Belarus, crime in, 109
Bengali people, 347, 349
Bentham, Jeremy, 353
Bentham, Samuel, 353
Bernanke, Ben, 364
Berndt, Ronald, 30
Bible

on coveting and adultery, 129, 409n8
on debt and redemption, 75, 80-87,
403n25

Exodus, 82, 283, 403n27, 409n8
forgiveness, concept of in, 84, 403n25
freedom, concept of in, 82
Genesis, 177
on honoring debts, 166
hospitality values in, 405n22
Jubilee, Law of, 2, 82, 390, 403n20
language of debt in, 75, 84, 403n25,
404n31

Leviticus, 82, 402nl5, 403n20,
419n77

Matthew, 442nl58

on patriarchy, 177

on prostitution, 183, 417n51

Ten Commandments, 129, 409n8
biblical concepts

Deuteronomy, 82, 87, 285, 287, 323,
402nl7, 403n20, 409n8, 445n28

See also Christianity
Bierce, Ambrose, 424nl

Bight of Biafra, 150, 411n55

bills of exchange, European

Islamic inspiration for, 292, 440nl29
overview, 291-292, 440nl30

bimetallism, 52, 397-398n21, 397n21

bin Ladin, Osama, 451nll

birth, as debt, 58

Blackburn, Robin, 224n3

Black Death, 308

Blanc, Louis, 404n9

Blaxter, Lorraine, 119

Bloch, Marc, 110, 406n40

blood brothers, 100, 116

blood debts

in Greece, 420n84

Lele people and, 137-144, 145

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